


2164: An Uncharted Odyssey

by shetlandowl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (most of that happens in the beginning), Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Big Brother is Watching to the next level, Brace yourselves, But uh the language is..... period specific, Crime Fighting, Flashbacks to war, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Just an imagined futuristic period, M/M, Mentions of Taco Bell & other delicious but questionable food sources, Minor Bruce Banner/Betty Ross, Minor Character Death, My apologies to Jason Statham - I did it out of love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Stress knitting, Swearing, This isn't Victorian England or Austenland, Virgin Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 13:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetlandowl/pseuds/shetlandowl
Summary: Following the devastation at the Triskellion in D.C., Steve is convicted for criminally negligent manslaughter and, like Rumlow, he sentenced to serve dozens of consecutive life sentences in Cryo-Prison.It is the year 2164. Violence of any kind is a nightmare long forgotten, and people live in a harmonious and pacifist paradise under the benevolent philosophy and leadership of their Governor. A series of events that nobody can account for leads to Rumlow’s escape from Cryo-Prison. After decades of peace, the law enforcement of New Yorseylvania is a mellow, gentle group of men and women who are at a loss for how to control this homicidal maniac. Tony Stark, a police lieutenant and life-long fan of the vigorous 21st century hero, suggests Captain America’s immediate reinstatement. With no better alternatives, the Captain is thawed for probation and reinstated to apprehend Crossbones once again.





	2164: An Uncharted Odyssey

**Author's Note:**

> For years I've wanted to participate in the Big Bang - looks like it finally happened TWICE. I had the pleasure of working with [**kakushimiko**](http://kakushimiko.tumblr.com/), whose lovely art work you can see [here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718227) | [on Tumblr](http://kakushimiko.tumblr.com/post/180419386152/and-here-is-my-second-contribution-to-the-captain).
> 
> I also want to thank my friends for cheering me on! This has been a beast of a story, and I don't think I would have managed it all if **[ilunabarrean](http://ilunabarrean.tumblr.com)** hadn't read the damn thing to me with YELLING as often as she did! ALL the hugs and gratitude, my lovely!! 
> 
> This is based on & borrows heavily from an old 90s movie called [Demolition Man](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0106697/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt). If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it! It is easily in my top three Sylvester Stallone movies (along with Rocky, Assassins, and Tango & Cash).

Jane raced into Bruce and Tony’s office and only just remembered to pull herself together at the threshold to announce herself. “Joyous Monday greetings, Lieutenant Tony Stark,” she said, breathless and beaming in his excitement. “May I enter?” 

Tony looked up, surprised, but smiling to see the younger officer. Fortunately, Bruce wasn’t there yet to witness Jane’s unusual show of immaturity. Tony was still getting himself settled in for the day at his desk, and he gestured for Jane to come in between starting up his computer terminal and organizing his pencils. 

“Officer Jane Foster, what a peachy surprise! Be well and enter,” Tony said easily, gesturing for the plush seats opposite his desk. “Have a seat, my friend.”

Once invited, Jane strode into the Lieutenant’s office and quickly circled palms with Tony in greeting. 

“I come with news, Tony Stark,” she said in a secretive undertone, and offered Tony a tablet where several crime scene photos were already pulled up. “A most egregious crime occurred right after dawn, sir. I thought you might want to be informed.”

With bated breath, Tony scrolled through the countless photos of vivid colors splattered across the wall of a government building. The meticulous timestamps showed how, for eight whole seconds, the devastating words _‘Life is Hell’_ had been slathered on a wall in public for innocent eyes to witness. 

“This is brutal,” Tony whispered with breathless excitement as he studied the shocking photos. “Why wasn’t there an all-cars notified?”

“That’s what I asked Chief Director Nicholas Fury!” Jane cried, but then she quickly lowered her voice before anyone outside Tony’s office doors heard her. In a more cautious tone of voice, she explained. “Chief Director Nicholas Fury said there was no need to create widespread panic. It is only a matter of tick-tocks before the perpetrator is codetraced.”

Tony frowned at the predictable lack of action, and dropped into his seat without any regard for decorum. “I find this tedious lack of stimulus dull,” he muttered mutinously, drumming his fingers over his desk. “Do you know what I did this week-end, Jane Foster?”

His question was rhetorical, but Jane erred on the side of polite manners and shook her head. “No, Tony Stark. Was it exciting, sir?”

“My dear acquaintance Virginia Potts serves as the Editor of Archival Media in the Arnold Schwarzenegger Presidential Library. She recently discovered a set of cinematic discs from the 21st century, which she generously copied for me. I spent this entire weekend studying the cinematic re-enactment of the fabled hero Captain America!”

Jane’s eyes grew to be the size of saucers, and she covered her mouth with both hands before a peep of excitement escaped her. 

“Is it true that the preeminent Captain America would help the elderly cross the road despite the increased risk of potential traffic-related injuries?” Jane whispered, spellbound. “My father, Raymond Foster, may he rest in peace, would many nights tell me of the good Captain’s heroism as nighttime stories. The stories recounted his great acts of heroism, how he could climb trees without fear of injury to collect frightened kittens, and even communicate with the French.”

Tony practically draped himself across the desk to tell Jane everything he knew, whispering urgently as if he simply couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “According to the archival discs, these and many more acts of epic bravery are all true. His earliest tenure as Captain America was back in the 1940s—over 200 years ago! In that time, his nefarious nemesis was none other than Johann Schmidt, briefly a close confidant of the most despicable, loathsome specimen of our species. You know of whom I speak,” he said quietly after a brief pause. “I will not utter his name.”

“A laudable choice, Tony Stark,” Jane agreed, though she still seemed shaken by the mere suggestion of the ghastly Führer. “His name is one to be forgotten, without exception.”

“Truly so,” Tony agreed, and he allowed a brief pause to act as a natural break between such terrible historic characters and the exalted Captain. 

“Is it true, sir, that the Captain succumbed in the 21st to the evil entanglements of the villain Crossbones?” Jane asked in the silence Tony had allowed. “Did he, too, become a villain in the end?”

“That is not how the archival discs commemorate his sacrifice, Jane Foster. Crossbones was an evil unimaginable even in their period for unthinkable crimes. He was not like Johann Schmidt, with his clear, if disturbing, agenda. If these archival discs are to be believed, then Crossbones taunted the Captain; he rejoiced in his own crimes! Violence was pleasurable to him. How a man so far out of his time would react to such lunacy… it is impossible to guess, Jane Foster, even when a man is as brave and valiant as the good Captain. But to the rumored circumstances of his imprisonment, I have no answers. Only gold class officers have sanctioned access to the case files, including the sentencing statements of our extraordinary Captain America.” 

But for Jane, Tony’s explanation only seemed to become more problematic. 

“Wait. Wait one moment, Tony Stark, sir,” she finally said with a noticeable tremor of fear in her voice. “My father, Raymond Foster—he, he told me—these are only characters, are they not? Fictional characters? If you say the legendary Captain America is a real man, then so must—so must Crossbones, but that cannot be: such evil cannot be. Sir, how could you suggest that a mortal man would live so long?”

“Enhance your calm, Jane Foster,” Tony said gently, giving Jane a moment to gather herself. “In another time, in a world much different than ours, they were as real as you and I,” Tony promised her then in a calm, sobering voice. He might understand why a guardian might want their child to believe such hatred could not occur in the human mind, but Jane was an officer of the law. Soon, Jane would be invited to a stewardship and mature to gold class adulthood. She deserved to know the truth. 

“Thanks to the Captain’s immeasurable valor, Crossbones is in Cryo-Prison where he is serving over a hundred and sixty consecutive life sentences. His name was Brock Rumlow, and he will never see the light of day again. I promise, Jane Foster, you have no reason to fear his villainy.”

***

Tony was on hold and humming along to the pleasant melodies on the phone later that morning when Bruce rushed into their office. 

“Tony Stark! Urgent salutations, my friend, I must speak with you. I received communication from Dr. Moses da Graça—” 

His phone call momentarily forgotten, Tony sat up straight at his desk. “What did the good doctor say?” 

Bruce held up the tablet in his hand and opened his mouth to speak when a polite voice sounded from Tony's phone. “Mellow greetings, Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark. How may I be of service this morning?” 

Tony quickly held up one finger to ask Bruce for some time, and returned to his call. “Be well, happy Warden Harold Hogan. As my Monday duty log irrationally requires it, I am hereby querying you on the prison population update. Does the tedium continue?” 

Over at his desk, Bruce was too jittery to find any peace, with or without his enormous mug of Mellow Fellow green tea. He shuffled papers around, watered his desk plants, and skimmed work related messages with unseeing eyes before giving up and crossing the room from his feng shui appropriate half to the half Tony had littered with health risk violations and vulgar 21st century memorabilia. 

Bruce moved aside a multi-colored puzzle cube with great caution so that he could perch on his partner's desk. He waited patiently for Tony to finish and disconnect the call before shoving the unlocked tablet under his nose. 

“As my friend, I require that you read it and spare me the burden.” 

“Be at ease, Bruce Banner, I will do what I can to help you,” Tony promised and took the tablet without delay. He flipped through the screens and called up Bruce's most recent private communications. The first one was addressed from his doctor and bore the description, ‘Screening results.’ He cleared his throat and started to read. 

“Respectful salutations. As an assistant to your estimable Reproductive Medical Screening Professional, henceforth RMSP, Dr. Moses da Graça…” 

Tony's voice caught for a moment, and he glanced up at his anxious friend before recovering the strength to continue. “Your RMSP, Dr. Moses da Garça reports troubling findings in the potential genetic contribution of your most recent gamete deposit. Of particular concern to Dr. Moses da Garça are Lieutenant Robert B. Banner's hereditary predisposition for rageful and irrational reactivity. His concluding recommendations are to seek joint support from professional therapists who can provide medication, enroll in regular calming activities, and to avoid repetitive tasks. A list of service provides endorsed by Dr. Moses da Garça are enclosed for your convenience. Following a period of six months that demonstrate a consistent change in behavior, Dr. Moses da Garça will welcome Lieutenant Robert B. Banner to make a fourth attempt at his earliest convenience. Healthful wishes, Anastasia Wynmer.”

Bruce did not move for a long time. 

“My friend, I am truly sorry,” Tony whispered reverently, replacing the tablet on his desk with care to avoid startling his stricken friend. “Do not give up hope: You will acquire your license to conceive on your next effort. Any child would be grateful for your parentage and hereditary predispositions, generous as they are.” 

A tension seemed to snap something deep within his partner, and Bruce viciously shoved away from Tony's desk to stomp back to his own side. “Do not patronize me, Tony Stark!” Bruce snarled, and distantly, the chipper voice of the morality box notified Bruce that he had been fined three credits for excessive aggression in the workplace. 

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, but Tony had snatched the ticket out of the machine before Bruce had any reason to think about it. The simple and thoughtful gesture was enough to remind him of whom he was yelling at, and just like that, his anger evaporated. 

“It's been two years. Betty Ross earned her license years ago, she deserves better than an impotent fiancé,” Bruce muttered as he awkwardly sat back into his desk chair. “She deserves so much better.” 

“You _will_ earn your license to conceive—” 

With a sudden flash of rage, Bruce glared across the office at his partner. “What do you know about it? You are not the one incapable of providing your partner with healthy children.” 

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them at Bruce's backhanded reply. Tony's gaze drifted from Bruce's face to the delicate golden chain around his wrist, and the golden engagement band on his right hand. 

“You are not wrong,” Tony eventually said with a deliberate calm. 

Bruce blinked up at him then, and as if only realizing what had passed between them, stared across at his partner with palpable guilt. “My friend, I am sorry—I didn't mean—”

Tony waved him off and mustered a smile. “No need for apologies, Bruce Banner.”

“Here I am complaining about my license to conceive when you—I mean,” he suddenly stuttered to backtrack, desperate to avoid saying the words out loud. “And you were in such a warm mood when I first arrived! What was on your mind on this pleasant Monday morning, Tony Stark?” 

A glimmer of excitement returned to Tony's expression as he remembered his new discovery over the weekend. “Thank you for recalling my joy-joy feelings, my friend. In fact, I received a most thoughtful gift from my dear friend Virginia Potts containing the cinematic archive discs from the 21st. This gift has helped reverse the profound sadness from when I regrettably finished my collection featuring the incomparable actor, Jackie Chan. I now continue my tutelage under the delightfully reckless and invigorating Jason Statham.”

“Is he, too, a vehicle for physical injury and aggressive enrichment?” Bruce wondered, eyeing Tony with concern. “As your partner, it is my duty to remind you that 21st century violence has not been acceptable for decades. We are an improved, peaceful society. You should know this more than anyone, Tony Stark,” he added gravely. 

“But—my friend, do you not ever feel bored codetracing perps who break curfew and tell dirty jokes?” Tony asked fervently, his eager imagination clear in his bright eyes. “Don't you ever want _something_ to happen?”

“Goodness, no! I find my job deeply fulfilling: I uphold peace, tranquility,” Bruce replied, palpably shaken by Tony’s whirlwind dreams of long-forgotten barbarism. “You're addicted to a distant past, high from its harshness, buzzed by its brutality. The venerable Governor Alexander G. Pierce has sacrificed much to create our peaceful world, and frankly, as your friend, I must strongly advise you to reconsider your hobbies if you ever wish to mature. A certified adult would not dream so fondly of violence as you do, Tony Stark.”

Tony looked chastised for seconds—mere heartbeats before another question burst out of him. “Does it not trouble you that as a people, violence was part of our nature for most of our history? The chiseled good looks and destructive efficiency of Jason Statham as the legendary super-soldier Captain America made me feel safe, even in the presence of a monster as brutal as the man they call Crossbones. How could we uphold peace if we are not prepared for the worst?” 

“Captain America?” Bruce repeated slowly, frowning to himself as he tried to recall the old wives' tale. “You glorify that short-sighted, homicidal neanderthal? He was a brute who disobeyed lawful regulation in order to cause great violence and property damage. Tony Stark, some historians even say Captain America...” he abruptly lowered his voice, scandalized by the words he felt compelled to say. “They say he extinguished _multiple_ lives.”

“Bruce Banner, if the immeasurably vile Johann Schmidt, heinous traitor Brock Rumlow, or self-serving Zemo committed half the atrocities recreated by 21st century cinematic masters, we should lionize Captain America for his extensive efforts to save civilization, not—not penalize him for minor blunders.” 

His partner stared back at him, jaw slack and paler than he had been seconds ago. “Tony Stark,” he breathed, horrified. “Extinguished lives are ‘minor blunders’? How could you—” 

The door to their office swung open to reveal Junior Officer Jane Foster. "Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” she said with a pained expression. "Chief Director Nicholas Fury requires your audience.” 

Tony and Bruce stood up as one. They both knew what had happened, and neither of them liked it. 

“Thank you, Officer Jane Foster,” Tony replied smoothly despite his anxious, twitching fingers. “After you.” 

Bruce followed him faithfully out into the bullpen, where natural sunlight spilled from the expansive sunroof overhead to warm the friendly faces who filled the room with buoyant chatter. 

All, except for one. 

“Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” Chief Fury rumbled in a tired, displeased tone. The chatter around the room quieted into a startled silence as the confrontation grew louder. “I monitored your disheartening and distressing comments to Lieutenant Robert B. Banner. Your fascination with the boorish disorder of the 21st exhausts my patience. You are setting a subpar example for sworn officers and personnel. Do you truly long so fondly for chaos and disharmony? I promoted a silver class officer to lieutenant, and this is how you repay my trust?” 

Murmurs started to flitter around the room while Tony stood at attention and listened to Chief Fury's frustrations, until both Tony and Fury were distracted enough to turn and see what was happening in the station. The far side of the bullpen became translucent before their eyes, and a map of New Yorseylvania filled the wall. A small red dot blinked in the middle. 

“What is that?” Bruce wondered, only loud enough for Tony to hear. Tony glanced at his partner, then took another quick look at the map. He’d been looking at the same part of the city only minutes earlier. 

“It’s the Cryo-Prison,” he answered, though he looked as confused by the knowledge as Bruce. 

“One eight seven,” the serene voice of the station computer reported repeatedly, with no further clarification or urgency. “One eight seven. One eight seven.”

Fury frowned at the room full of confused but unmoving officers around him. “Officer Jane Foster! Definition for code one eight seven, now.”

“Jane Foster, don’t!” Tony shouted immediately, and all eyes turned on him in disapproval over his rude exclamation. Tony was pale and harried, but he pressed his lips together to will the nausea at bay and stubbornly stood his ground at a computer terminal. He had already beaten Foster to the punch. 

“Chief, Code 1-8-7,” he reported, his voice frail and unsteady in the sudden crush of anxiety. “Murder-death-kill. Sir.”

Around the bullpen, police officers gasped and audible struggled to breathe at the thought of such a heinous crime. Jane, who had been so close to facing the shock first-hand, barely managed to stay on her feet as she stumbled sideways into a seat before her legs gave out. 

From his commandeered terminal, Tony called up the Cryo-Prison security system and replaced the map of New Yorseylvania with live footage from the prison. One after another, he clicked through cameras in every room of the building until he found what he was looking. In the main conference hall, the bodies of two dead guards littered the scene at grotesque angles. They watched, powerless, as Warden Harold Hogan crawled across the floor, fresh blood obscuring half of his face. 

“I show two stopped codes at Cryo-Prison X23-5,” the gentle voice of the computer informed them over the stuttering sound of the Warden’s failing heartbeat. “Harold Hogan, Warden. Severe injury. Do you wish to assign a medic?“

Unbidden, Tony found himself remembering happy Harold Hogan’s smug chuckling from their recent conversation. He was a good man, and here Tony was, watching his friend fail in his last attempt to crawl to safety in a room full of law enforcement officers who could do nothing to help him. A number of officers collapsed from shock, and others wept openly; the stronger souls only doubled over as they were sick over the pristine marble floors from the revolting and unimaginable brutality. 

“Update,” the computer told them in its pleasant voice. “Specification deceased. Do you wish to assign a coroner?”

While his colleagues were busy trying to process the trauma from witnessing villainy on a scale they had never thought possible, Tony scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand and turned back to the terminal monitor. They needed to know who they were dealing with, and Tony only had one hunch on how to find any answers. 

‘What do you think you’re doing?” Fury demanded as the footage on the wall switched to archived files and folders from the Cryo-Prison, many of them classified and protected. “Silver class personnel are not authorized—”

“I am accessing the Cryo-Prison’s morning hearing schedule, sir,” Tony interrupted him to say, his fingers flying over the keypad as he rushed to find the answers he needed. Let Fury carry him away if he wanted to stop him. “Almost there, sir.”

Before Fury could bark at Tony for disobeying such clear laws of privacy protection, the names of all prisoners scheduled for a hearing that morning in the conference hall were projected onto the translucent wall. 

“Oh, no,” Bruce breathed just as Tony found it, too. 

“Brock Rumlow,” Tony read quietly to himself as Fury marched over to his terminal to verify that it was, in fact, saying the same thing that was being projected onto the wall. 

Jane was the first of the other officers to speak up, albeit very quietly. “Lieutenant Tony Stark,” she said, struggling to control the tremble in her voice. “Are you saying that ...he’s been thawed? Crossbones is free?”

Tony turned towards Jane now that she finally addressed Tony directly, and the fear in the young officer’s eyes hit him like a punch in the gut. He wanted so badly to say he had been wrong, that it had only been a figment of barbaric 21st century imagination. That no man could devastate countless innocent lives for petty ambitions such as revenge or greed. 

No adrenaline rush was worth the loss of human life. No fulfilling car chase would ever restore Jane’s sense of security. Tony regretted every rotten word he’d ever said against the peaceful slumber of their serene civilization. 

“I am profoundly sorry, Jane Foster,” Tony replied quietly at the same time as the computer announced another 1-8-7. 

“One stopped code in penitentiary parking lot,” it announced in its gentle, sedate voice. “Doctor Helen Cho. Would you like to assign a coroner?”

“Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark, step away from that terminal,” Fury commanded in a raised tone, “this is not a job for silver class personnel. Lieutenant Robert B. Banner, take over the terminal.”

Bewildered, Bruce blinked up at the Chief, then glanced at Tony as if his junior partner would know how to react. “Chief, I,” he stammered quietly, shaking his head. Tony had already stepped away from the terminal as Fury had demanded, but Bruce made no move to take his place. “What do I do? I don’t know—”

“Silence,” Fury snapped irritably and strode across to the terminal to do it himself. 

Except, he, too, was at a loss for what to do. He stared at the computer, his fingers hovering over the keypad at the ready, but between the adrenaline and shock, he couldn’t bring himself to act. 

“Sir,” Tony said to Fury quietly, attempting to sound and act deferential despite his desperate need to get back on that terminal. “Is the doctor’s conveyance still in the parking lot?”

Fury shot him a glare, but for the lack of a better idea, he tapped the request into the terminal. The computer complied at once, bringing up the map and identifying the movement of Cho’s vehicle with a blue dot. 

Finally, they had a lead. 

“Dispatcher: all nearby units, ProtecServe Madison and 57th,” Fury told the weeping man behind the service desk. “Officers, pull yourselves together! There is nothing to fear now. The heinous criminal will be back in the ice and a forgotten memory by the time you’re home to supper with your families.”

A cautious hope rose among the station staff, and as they watched the white police vehicle markers move on the map to converge on the blue dot, the embers of confidence surged into a bright optimism. Their colleagues had the heartless criminal cornered, and soon, their MDK’d friends would be avenged. 

Justice would be served. 

*** 

At the intersection of Madison and 57th, Brock slid out of Cho’s car and wandered to the nearest CompuKiosk, whistling and pleased as punch. All around him, people stopped and stared at the fitted jeans and skin-tight muscle shirt he wore that clearly advertised the strength and size of his body to anyone who looked. 

Rumlow paused to smirk at a passing young woman who stopped to stare at nothing but his chest and biceps. He flexed for her and smirked, but instead of the typical gleam of excitement in a woman’s eyes, she was outright disgusted and quickly walked away. 

Her reaction was the last possible one Brock would have anticipated, and with a frown of irritation, he turned to take in the people milling around him. People were tall and lean, willowy almost, like they had never seen a protein shake in their collective lives. But in contrast to the fashion of his time, none of them showcased their bodies in skinny jeans, fitted tees, or sheath dresses. 

He stood out like a sore thumb. 

They would learn to admire him once he was through with them. 

A glum looking young man stood in the CompuKiosk he wanted when he finally got back around to what he was after. 

“Lately I feel like there is nothing special about me,” he was telling the computer. 

“You are an incredibly sensitive man who inspires joy-joy feelings in all those around you!” the computer replied in a chipper voice. 

Brock grabbed the man by his hair and tossed him aside. “Get a life!” he shouted after him, and, terrified, the young man scurried away. 

The CompuKiosk was a computer terminal in an open booth that was operated by a series of buttons organized in four rows. There were the expected access points, like an Atlas, Banking, Mail, and Telephone Directory. But the second row of buttons read, Ego Boost, Citizen Confessional, Public Psychiatrist, and Serenity Sayings. Rumlow couldn’t resist. 

“You look great today!” the computer said after Brock selected Ego Boost. 

“Thank you,” he replied with a grin. “I feel pretty great, too.”

He hit the Mail button next and got to work. His fingers flew over the keyboard with a mind of their own, and Brock’s grin continued to grow as he realized at every turn that all of this futuristic shit was coming naturally to him. It was as if they’d designed everything in this world to be intuitive to him! 

“You have reached the secure mailbox information for Brock Rumlow,” the computer informed him, but Brock was five steps ahead of it. He had already pulled up the first of four digital messages in his inbox, and photos, maps, transportation networks, and pages of information scrolled across the screen in a blurr. 

Satisfied, he opened the next one. Again there was a map, but this time, the attached photos were of weapons. Not the massive laser cannon weapons that he would have expected of the future, but weapons that he almost recognized. They look like the fancy StarkTech he would have used in his day, but upgraded. 

“What do you do?” he murmured playfully as he absorbed the exploded view of the upgraded shotgun currently rotating on the terminal screen. 

“Noun: Gun. Portable firearm. This device was widely utilized in the urban wars of the late 21st Century. This model was referred to as a shotgun, rifle, a piece…”

“I don’t want a history lesson, Hal!” Rumlow snapped. “Where are the fucking guns!”

A morality box attached to the CompuKiosk buzzed overhead and printed a thin sheaf of paper for Rumlow’s reference. “Mister Brock Rumlow, you are fined five credits for a violation of verbal morality statute 1-1-3.”

Brock tore the ticket off the box with a frown, then crumbled it up and tossed it away. “Fuck you.”

“Your repeated violation of the verbal morality statute in a public space is a danger to the emotional sanctity of women and children and therefore I am required to notify the New Yorseylvanian Police Department of your actions. Please remain patient for your reprimand.”

Before Rumlow has a chance to punch the terminal monitor, two NYPD patrol vehicles screech to a halt behind him. Now, _that_ was some futuristic shit. 

“Damn, you fuckers are fast.” 

Behind him, the morality box buzzed to life again, but Rumlow ignored it and turned to look at the four cops approaching him instead. They carried glow sticks, and Brock tilted his head thoughtfully as he considered their soft blue tint. Electronic stun batons. 

With his arms casually crossed in front of him, Brock watched as another car pulled up and two more cops stepped out with two more batons. 

The cop standing closest to him held a device and spoke to it as if Brock wasn’t standing a few feet away. As if he couldn’t hear him. 

“Maniac is imminent,” the cop reported. “Request advice.”

“What the fuck?” Rumlow snickered, and again, the morality box buzzed.

The little device replied to the cop’s request with the detached confidence of a machine. “With a firm tone of voice, demand maniac lie down with hands behind back.”

The cop nodded, then put the device away to give Rumlow his attention. 

“Brock Rumlow, lie down and put your hands behind your back.”

Brock shrugged and scoffed at the absolute insanity of his request. “I’m touched. There’s six of you, and so nicely dressed, but… you know, I just don’t feel like it,” he replied with an exaggerated smile. 

His resistance gave the cops pause. They glanced at each other, then turned to look at their leader. The leader pulled out his device again, and sounded like his feelings had been hurt when he told it, “Maniac is disinclined to cooperate.”

“Approach maniac, and in an even firmer tone of voice repeat previous request. Conclude with the words, ‘or else.’”

With a renewed boost in confidence, the squad leader took two steps forward. “Brock Rumlow, lie down and put your hands behind your back, or else…”

“Or else? That’s some weak shit,” Brock said with a slow shake of his head, but as he looked them all in the eye, one after another, his smug smile turned darker and more maliciously gleeful. 

“Why don’t I show you how we did it back in my day?”

*** 

Six more MDKs. 

Within the hour of Rumlow’s escape, Fury gathered his senior Lieutenants in a private meeting to avoid raising alarm. For his quick thinking and unbecoming fascination with the 21st, Tony was the only silver class personnel invited to stand inside the room while the gold class officers sat around Fury’s meeting table. 

“Our preeminent Governor Alexander G. Pierce has sanctioned any and all resources in our power to stop and capture this maniac,” he told them. “Six Lieutenants MDK’d within tick tocks. He has intimate knowledge of our vehicles and our weapons, and enough information about our city to disappear. I ask you: what else is there to do ‘in our power’?”

Silence filled the room, until a senior Lieutenant dared to speak up. “With all due respect, Chief Director Nicholas Fury, Brock Rumlow has completed a dozen unsanctioned life terminations in less than 60 minutes. Does this truly fall to us? We’re police officers, we are not trained to handle this kind of violence.” 

“Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” Bruce said before Fury’s glare turned into an unsanctioned shouting match. “How was the fiendish lunatic Brock Rumlow apprehended back in the 21st?”

Aware of his inferiority relative to all gold class Lieutenants in the room, Tony waited for Fury’s attention before answering his partner’s question. 

“They tried many things, Lieutenant Bruce Banner,” he said as calmly as he could. “Nationwide video reels advertising rewards for his arrest. Satellite surveillance. Twelve-state manhunt. None of them worked. In the end, it was Captain America who personally brought him to justice.”

The skeptical Lieutenant frowned at Tony’s reported solution. “Captain America is fairytale hokum told to fearful children and wayward adolescents.”

“He is real,” Tony interjected firmly, clasping his hands behind his back before anyone noticed how his fingers curled into agitated fists. “Captain America is legendary, but he is no legend. He is flesh and blood, a mortal man like you and me. He is currently in Cryo, where he is serving 10 consecutive lifetimes for involuntary manslaughter he most regrettably was responsible for in the events leading to his capture of Brock Rumlow. However,” he added as concerned murmurs spread around the room, “there is no man better suited to apprehending this vile criminal. Chief, it is within your power to reinstate the good Captain. We cannot overlook this advantage, sir. I implore you to give Captain America a chance.”

Fury glanced around the table of ashen faces. “In the absence of any alternatives,” he finally muttered, “so be it.”

*** 

“His name is Captain Steven Grant Rogers, retired from the US Army,” Tony whispered with reverent wonder, staring at his computer terminal with unblinking eyes as he absorbed every ounce of information from Captain America’s case file. Under the circumstances, he had been provided with exceptional clearance to read all the recorded information about Steven G. Rogers - everything that he’d never had access to before. He read the available facts about his life from the 30s and 40s in the 20th, and also later in the 10s and 20s of the 21st. Some information corroborated the legends Tony had studied, while others defied them entirely, but either way, Tony was spellbound by all he was learning about his greatest hero. 

Bruce kept to his side of the office for the whole affair. There he could distance himself from Tony and this Captain America farce without being rude. In difference to Tony, Bruce studiously maintained the hope that absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary. 

It was difficult to do so successfully while Tony worked feverishly on this uncomfortable and undoubtedly violent solution, but at least Bruce could choose what points to respond to. “Wait,” he wondered after a brief silence of Tony’s continued reading. “Captain America is Irish?” 

“His ancestry is not disclosed,” Tony replied after a few seconds of genuine searching. Then with a heavy sigh, he said, “Bruce Banner, I confess I now regret my recommendation to remove this man from his peaceful rest. His life is rife with centuries old tragedy. He deserves to be thawed for his release and a chance to live amongst us in harmony, not returned to the violence history continues to throw at him.”

Bruce frowned in sympathy, and he remained quiet until he thought of something to say. “Has he surviving family, perhaps?”

From his side of the office, Tony perked up and attacked his computer terminal with newfound vigor. 

“Greetings Lieutenant Robert B. Banner, Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” Jane said with a formal salut in the doorway to their office. “Chief Director Nicholas Fury requests your presence at the Cryo-Prison for Captain America’s temporary reinstatement.”

“For what purpose?” Bruce cautiously asked, though Tony had already jumped up in his excitement. He clipped on his polished badge and picked up his gloves, then hovered at Bruce’s desk, eager and brimming with energy, until his partner gave up and stood to join them. 

Icey chills washed over Bruce’s neck when he heard Fury’s reply from only a few feet away. “Your presence is deemed necessary, Lieutenant, in the event that this 21st century animal is incapable of civilized speech. For once, Lieutenant Tony Stark’s vulgar pursuits of leisure may stand to our advantage.” 

Without another word, Bruce and Tony fall into step behind the Chief Director. A van waited for them outside the station to take them directly to the Cryo-Prison, lights flashing the whole way to avoid all traffic. 

“Captain America has been coded and removed from his cell. They did not quantify status in his time, so while he believes he is an adult, I disagree. He will be in need of stewardship for the duration of his reinstatement,” Fury explained to them on the way. “His stewardship is assigned to you, Lieutenant Robert B. Banner.”

Bruce blinked owlishly at the Chief Director’s back. He glanced at his partner as if to ask for help, but he’d spoken out of line too recently to dare disagree with a direct order. “Yes, sir.” 

The Cryo-Prison parking structure was unusually empty for a Monday afternoon, and Bruce tried not to think about the senseless MDK of Dr. Helen Cho in the same structure that they had collectively witnessed from the station.

Their world was changing, and it was not for the better. 

*** 

Tony followed his superiors as they were all taken through to the conference hall where Captain America—Captain Steven Grant Rogers—had been rolled out in a hospital bed. He still shivered violently in the open air, wearing nothing but the heavy cloth covering his eyes. The Captain’s long, slick hair was tied up in a bun on his head, and his beard had been hastily cut in uneven chunks. His long hair and unusual beard was to be expected; cryostasis slowed down prisoners’ heartbeat and natural cell cycles, but even so, slow hair growth over centuries added up. 

It was everything else about the Captain’s presentation that left Tony speechless. Beads of sweat pearled over his skin and stretched over firm the curves of his body. As with any criminal being prepared for release, no cover had been provided for him, but by Tony’s general estimation, far too many nurses were in attendance to help wipe him off. 

“Be well, and be gone,” Fury barked at the nurses, and like frightened sheep, they jumped away and hustled out of the room. 

“Why does his body have so much… volume?” Bruce asked without thinking, presumably expecting Tony to answer. But when he glanced at Tony, Tony was in the process of pulling at the clasps and ties of his uniform jacket. “Tony Stark, what are you doing? Have you no sense of decorum?”

Tony gave Bruce a look, but he said nothing. Once he got his jacket off, Tony walked around his superiors and covered Steve’s body with his jacket to preserve his modesty the best that he could. 

A sudden tremor shook Steve’s body, and on instinct Tony quickly lifted his uniform jacket again for fear that such a coarse material had hurt the recently thawed skin of the Captain. But once he had a chance to listen, he realized the sounds the Captain made were not sounds of pain, but attempts to form a proper noun. If Tony didn’t know better, he would have thought he heard his name on Captain America’s lips. 

But then he heard it again, broken and rasped over a voice hoarse from decades of disuse. 

“Stark?” 

Steve had not yet regained full motor control of his body, but he fought to lift his arm and pull off the heavy cloth covering his eyes. Tony dropped his jacket over the Captain’s lap at once and rushed to put pressure on the cloth covering the his eyes. 

“Your eyes have not yet adjusted to the light, Captain Steven G. Rogers,” Tony informed him even as Steve tugged weakly with the fabric. Failing to uncover his eyes, the Captain closed his trembling fingers around Tony’s wrist with alarming strength for a man so recently released from Cryo.

The touch of his skin was the first physical contact Tony had experienced since his parents had passed away. It was nauseating, revolting, and Tony squeezed his eyes shut to steady himself, to silence any cry and restrain himself from jerking his hand away in disgust. 

“Please,” Tony whispered, speaking softly so only Steve would hear. “Eyesight is precious and fragile, Captain Steven G. Rogers. You must give it time.”

“‘s ok,” Steve rasped stubbornly, and when he squeezed Tony’s wrist again, Tony gasped and pulled away. 

As soon as he could, Steve tore off the cloth covering his eyes and stared after Tony. His eyes watered and he blinked furiously while his pupils dilated erratically in their effort to focus in the forgotten intensity of natural sunlight. 

Tony, who only stood a few feet from Steve’s bedside, could only stare back in wonder. 

When Steve finally lifted his gaze and smirked back at Tony’s open admiration, Tony snapped his mouth shut and tried to stand at attention, or mimic the posture of anything but a schoolboy at the feet of his hero. Tony could feel himself growing lightheaded the more he stared at the breadth of the Captain’s shoulders, the strong line of his jaw, and the ferocity in his eyes. 

Nothing against the fearsome Jason Statham, but perhaps the casting could have been better. 

_But would anyone have believed it?_ Tony couldn’t help but wonder even as he stared at the thawed Captain himself. 

“Where,” Steve croaked, clearing his throat as he tried to speak. Tony looked around them for water, or anything for Steve to drink, but the room was purposefully left empty for hearings with newly released perps. 

“Where am I?”

“You, uh,” Tony started to say, only realizing in the moment that maybe he should have prepared a thoughtful way of explaining what had happened since Steve was put in Cryo. “Captain—”

Steve made a gurgling sound and instead interrupted Tony to ask a different question. “ _When_ am I?”

“Captain America, sir. The year is 2164,” Tony tried again, speaking slowly and as simply as he could. “It has been one hundred and forty seven years since you were sentenced. The reason for your early release—”

“Bucky?” 

His best friend. It was the only name the Captain choked out. Tony averted his eyes, unable to watch the tears welling up in his eyes. 

“I understand you mean US Army Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, sir. His light was extinguished in the Big One of 2021,” Tony replied as gently as he could, as if his tone of voice would make a difference somehow. 

Steve’s chest stuttered as he tried to take a deep breath, his breath audibly rattling in the quiet hall. “What? What does that—what happened?”

Tony glanced back at Bruce, who was at a loss for what to say, and the Chief Director, who was running low on patience. In the end, there was nothing Tony could do but face Steve again and say it even more plainly. 

“He died,” he said quietly, apologetically. “In an earthquake. In _the_ earthquake.”

Steve pressed his lips together and was silent for some time before something else came to him. “Sharon Carter,” he said urgently, “my, my friend’s niece. Was she—”

“Captain Steven Grant Rogers, I am the Chief Director of Police Nicholas Fury,” the Chief said in a raised voice that had Tony stepping aside immediately. “We did not thaw you for a family reunion. You should be grateful Lieutenant Tony Stark did a probe on your relations at all. This is about you and Brock Rumlow. You may otherwise know him as Crossbones.”

Steve looked at Tony, then back at Fury, his brows furrowed in confusion and anger. “What?”

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, this morning Brock Rumlow escaped from this Cryo facility,” Tony explained before Fury went off the deep end. “He has completed thirteen murder death kills so far. We are a society of peace and understanding, we are not equipped to handle criminals as cruel and detestable as Brock Rumlow.”

When Steve only looked at Tony like he was crazy, Bruce cleared his throat and tried to help explain. “Captain Steven G. Rogers, our society has evolved since your time. We have not had any MDKs in New Yorseylvania in the last forty years.”

“New _what?_ ”

Tony glanced from Bruce to Fury, and when neither of them seemed willing to answer the Captain’s question, Tony tried. “We are what is left of the New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey after the earthquake of 2021.”

Steve stared back at them all as if he expected someone to revealing this was a cruel prank. It was with a broken sigh that he eventually gave up that hope. “I, I need a smoke. Marlboros, anything, I don’t care what—”

“Of course, but what are… uh,” Bruce started to ask when Tony held up his hand. 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers—”

“Steve is fine,” Steve interjected with a grunt of irritation. 

“Captain Steve,” Tony amended after a beat of confusion. “Cigarettes are not good for you and it has been deemed that everything that is not good for you is bad. Illegal. Alcohol, caffeine, contact sports, red meat…” 

“Are you fucking with me?”

Tony blushed furiously at the Steve’s word choice, while distantly the morality box spewed a ticket and announced, “Captain Steven G. Rogers, you are fined five credits for a violation of verbal morality statute 1-1-3.”

Steve blinked and looked around in confusion. “What the hell was that?”

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, you are fined five credits for a violation of verbal morality statute 1-1-3.”

Tony cleared his throat and continued his earlier list, “—improper language, chocolate, gasoline, non-educational toys, and anything spicy.”

“Which conveniently brings us to what is legal,” the Chief Director said. “In your time, adulthood was bestowed at the age of majority. Here, adulthood is a legal status with requirements. Completing all educational requirements brings one to silver class status. Silver class adults must complete the mentorship of a minor to become independent, gold class adults. Since you have accomplished neither, you are considered a minor.”

“What would be the fucking point? Everything is illegal,” Steve muttered while the morality box charged him another five credits. “Wait, is sodomy illegal again?”

“Yes!” all three officers cried in unison.

Steve threw up his arms and fell back in his bed, muttering under his breath. “Fucking hell.”

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, you are fined ten credits for a violation of verbal morality statute 1-1-3.”

“The _point_ is,” Chief Director Fury snarled, “you need a steward. The conditions of your parole are full reinstatement into the NYPD and immediate assignment to the apprehension of Brock Rumlow. On the recommendation of your steward at the end of your parole it will be determined whether you can be granted gold class status as part of returning you to an equal class which you enjoyed at the time of your sentencing.”

While still sulking in his hospital bed, Steve rolled his eyes and snippily asked, “It’s not with you, is it?” 

“I am the Chief Director of Police, I do not have time to steward insubordinate, muscle-bound apes—”

“Great!” Steve interrupted him with an air of exaggerated relief, then sat up to give Tony an impish grin. “So, Stark, was it? What’s your name?”

It looked like the blood vessels on Fury’s head were going to burst at any second, and he snapped with a sudden flash of rage. “Your assigned steward is Lieutenant Robert B. Banner!”

Tony and Bruce averted their eyes immediately, doing their Chief the courtesy of pretending they had not heard him lose his calm. 

Steve scrunched up his face in confusion. “Who? No offense,” he said to Bruce quickly as he realized that must have been the third person in the room, “I don’t know any of you, but at least Stark’s looks familiar. I’ll go with him.”

There was no reason for Captain America to know anything about him, but Tony didn’t care. All that mattered was that he wanted Tony. After all these years of people thinking he was too strange, his hobbies uncouth and his excitement uncivilized, somebody was finally interested in Tony as their steward.

Fury glanced at Tony, who was vigorously nodding back. Then, with a long sigh and some silent soul-searching, he turned to Tony and officially asked, “Lieutenant Anthony Edward Stark, do you accept the burden of stewardship for Captain Steven Grant Rogers?”

“I do,” Tony answered immediately, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “I gladly accept the honor, sir.”

“Then I, Chief Director Nicholas Fury, leave the charge of Captain Steven Grant Rogers in your hands for the duration of his parole. With Lieutenant Robert Bruce Banner as my witness, should he meet the criteria of a respectable citizen of New Yorseylvania at that time, I will recommend your ascention to gold class status.”

*** 

Bruce returned to the station with Fury while Tony stayed behind to help Steve get ready. While they quickly cut the Captain out of his centuries of hair growth, Tony arranged for his clothes so that upon his release, he could present Steve with a custom made uniform and a new pair of shoes. He gave Steve some time to shower and get dressed, signed Steve’s release forms and assumed the man’s guardianship, then finally led him out into the free world. 

Steve folded himself into the passenger seat in the squad car left for them. Tony watched as Steve tried to get comfortable, but the car simply wasn’t made for someone his size. He could either sit so his hip dug into the center console, or so his shoulder pressed into the passenger side window, and neither felt particularly comfortable. He never once complained, but Tony wasn’t blind to his discomfort. 

“I apologize for the inadequacy of your seat, Captain Steve,” he said sincerely. “Guidelines for officer body types, fitness levels, as well as socially desired aesthetic values have changed since your time. Moderation is impressed upon us in every aspect of our lives. There is no excuse, however, for your discomfort, and I assure you that I will requisition for a large conveyance within tick tocks of our arrival in NYPD headquarters.”

At no point in all of Tony’s efforts to comfort the Captain did the man look at him. He simply looked out the window at the sparkling city that passed by and absently rubbed the back of his left hand, as if Tony did not exist or had never spoken. Tony could only wring his hands as he gripped the steering wheel. This man was his responsibility, and if that was not already the most important responsibility of his life, Captain Steve was Tony’s hero. Letting him down was not an option. 

“What I mean is,” he continued, his words spilling out in his discomfort faster than he could control them. “Many will find you grotesque. They will call you names, fear you, or otherwise express their disgust in your presence. If they cry when they see you—”

“Is that meant to make me feel better?”

“I… uh,” Tony suddenly stalled, a little bewildered by the interruption. “No, sir. No, I am only trying to warn you, Captain Steve. As your steward in this transition, it is my responsibility and commitment to you to prepare you as best that I can for the 22nd. Your trust in me,” he started to say, then pressed his lips into a tight line of resistance. 

He had dreamt for so long for this chance, for this moment to steward and to earn his place as a gold status adult. The stewardship was a silver class citizen’s chance to prove that they saw themselves as part of society, as something bigger than themselves. The stewardship was not for the benefit of the citizen ascending to gold status, but for the juvenile being mentored. The steward was only ever meant to be selfless and giving. 

And honest. The steward should never lie for his or her own comfort. Without honesty, they could not teach, only obfuscate. 

“Your trust in me is deeply appreciated, Captain Steve,” Tony said then, glancing across to Steve in the hopes of catching his eyes. This time, Steve was looking back at him, and for a moment Tony lost himself wondering what the Captain was thinking. He looked sad. 

“I swear to you that I will not let you down, Captain. It happens that I am educated in your personal history,” Tony added, the confidence in his voice growing with every word. “I understand that this has happened to you previously, and without aid. I will not let that happen again, sir. I intend to be here for you at every step of your acclimatization, and I will not allow for you to be unprepared in this new life. But our society… we do not aspire to individuality or freedom of choice the way they did in the 21st. We are unified and uniform, and those who act differently are not well received. It is how we maintain harmony. My only intention is to warn you, Captain Steve,” he finished more gently. “For if they cannot see that you are handsome, it is their loss, and I will not allow you to take their limited vision to heart.” 

Steve continued to quietly observe Tony in his stoic, indescribable expression. Never had Tony felt more betrayed by the esteemed Jason Statham.

Then, something changed. The corner of the Captain’s lips curled up in a small expression of contentment, and Tony felt his priorities shift into place. Privately, Tony vowed never to disabuse this man of his trust in him. 

“Call me Steve,” the Captain told him then. “Captain Steve sounds weird.”

The request was unexpected, and Tony frowned to himself before glancing at Steve again. He turned the car on autopilot so that they could speak more freely. 

“Captain Steve, such informality is frowned upon outside of familial or romantic bonds,” Tony explained as calmly as he could. “There are no loopholes to polite society. We do not call each other dude, or bro, or man, or mate, in the case of Anglican English. Professional address must include appropriate title, first name, middle initial, last name. In non-professional settings, or interactions between friends, one may shorten this address by excluding the middle initial at first, then continuing only with first name and last name.”

Steve took a slow, steadying breath that seemed to have no effect on his heightened stress level. 

“So, let me get this straight,” he said slowly, if irritably. “You can call me Captain Steven G. Rogers, Captain Steve Rogers, or Steve Rogers? But you can’t call me Steve even if it is my preference?”

A blush crept up Tony’s neck and colored his cheeks at such a request, but Tony reminded himself that this was for Steve’s edification. “To call someone by only his first name is a very intimate gesture, Steve Rogers,” Tony said in a whisper, in case someone Tony was not accounting for might overhear. Then, with more care not to alarm Steve, he continued to elaborate on his explanation to be sure Steve understood what he meant. “It is only shared between lovers. _Romantic_ lovers. Passionate—”

“—Thanks, Stark, that’s—I get it, thank you,” Steve interjected with a wave of his hand and a tired sigh. “What about last names?”

Tony blinked a few times in his confusion, but he considered the question carefully before answering. “There is no precedent for it or against it. Would that make you more comfortable, Steve Rogers?”

“Yes, it would, it would make me much more comfortable,” Steve muttered, and in his irritation he started to scratch more aggressively at the back of his left hand. “And can we stop at a pharmacy or hospital or something? I think that Cryo cell gave me a rash.”

“That is no rash, Steve Rogers,” Tony said with the confidence of a man who finally knew what he was talking about. “That is your code tracer. All citizens of New Yorseylvania are code traced, it allows us to monitor citizen locations and biolink vitals at all times.”

Steve hung his head, then scrubbed his hands over his face. It wasn’t difficult to see Steve was upset, but for the life of him, Tony couldn’t figure out why. Who would not be comforted to know someone could always monitor his coordinates and his health? Thanks to code tracers, ambulances and medical attention had never lost their way, and for those whose conditions could be predicted, aid often arrived well before the incident came to pass. 

“I can see that you are upset, Steve Rogers—”

“Upset?” Steve shot up in his seat and interjected before Tony could finish. “Why would I be upset? New York as I know it is gone, my friends are long dead, and I’m stuck in a post-apocalyptic fascist Stepford dystopia surrounded by brainwashed pacifists who have outlawed _meatloaf._ Why would I possibly be upset!”

“Enhance your calm, Steve Rogers,” Tony suggested in a gentling tone, but it only seemed to agitate his charge further. 

“What the fuck does that mean! ‘Enhance my calm?’ Can’t you hear yourself?” Steve shouted as the morality box in the car buzzed to inform him he had been fined eight credits for violating the verbal morality statute and for excessive aggression in the workplace. 

“Calm yourself, Captain Steven G. Rogers,” Tony said in a firmer tone of voice. “There is a villainous maniac on the loose, and whatever else this pacifist, meatloaf fearing society has done to offend you, we live, we love, and we try just as much as people in your time. So may we table the collapse of your psychoemotional disposition until the threat of this heinous criminal is neutralized?”

This time, Steve seemed to hear him. The combative ferocity in the Captain’s expression faded into a quiet determination that bordered on looking defeated, but eventually he nodded in the affirmative. Tony turned back to the steering column and engaged manual drive again. 

“I apologize for my untender tone, Steve Rogers. Unsanctioned life terminations are upsetting to us all, but I should not take it out on you who depends on me,” he said in the awkward silence between them. “With genuine effort, I will do my best to make this world more at home for you, Captain. Perhaps you would like to hear some music from your time to feel more at ease? Our oldies station is the most popular station in town, it will not disappoint you.”

The car understood Tony’s request, and without the need for buttons or even a touchscreen, the radio turned on at a reasonable volume. 

_That is what I truly wish to be!_  
_If I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner,_  
_everyone would be in love,_  
_oh! Everyone would be in love,_  
_everyone would be in love with me!_

Tony couldn’t resist singing along to the classic tunes with a bright smile on his face. “They are mini-tunes, but I believe in your time you called them commercials, or advertising jingles. They are most cheerful and evocative - does it not bring back fond memories, Steve Rogers?”

But when he glanced over at the Captain, Steve was doubled over in his seat with his head in his hands, silent as the grave. 

*** 

Heads turned when Tony returned to the office with the legendary Captain in tow, and an excitable silence fell over the sparse crowd. Only a handful of police officers remained in the station since Tony had left with the Chief Director to recruit the Captain. It was unclear how many had resigned from their duty and how many had simply taken the day off to comfort their families, but that no longer mattered. They could not fail with Captain America among them. 

“Lieutenant Tony Stark!” Jane cried in her excitement as she rushed forward to greet them—or, by the look of her unblinking gaze, to say hello to the legendary Captain in person. “Radiant greetings, Tony Stark, is this—are you, uh. Captain, uh. Captain America, sir?”

“Officer Jane Foster, allow me to introduce Captain Steven G. Rogers,” Tony said in slow, patient words that gave Jane the chance to compose herself. The young officer did her best, tugging her jacket into place and standing up straight with her shoulders back. 

“Sir, I formally convey my respectful presence,” Jane said and raised her hand for a formal yet friendly greeting. 

Steve glanced at Tony for a second, as if unsure if there would be more words in this introduction. “Nice to meet you, too,” he replied to Jane with a close-lipped smile and shook her hand. 

Around them, officers and staff gasped in shock and revulsion. Jane had frozen at the first touch of Steve’s skin, and she stood imobile, staring at her sullied hand in horror. 

“Captain,” Tony said with a forced calm as Steve looked around them in growing confusion. “We no longer use physical contact greetings. In fact, we do not share physical contact with people outside of our nuclear family and committed romantic partners.” 

“Fine, whatever. Sorry, ma’am,” he said to Jane before turning back to Tony. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Tony frowned a little at Steve’s question, then stepped in a little closer to quietly ask, “Were you not able to use the facilities at the prison, Steve Rogers?”

Steve frowned, but eventually replied. “I couldn’t. They were out of toilet paper.”

“What’s toilet paper?” Jane wondered, and Tony quickly gave her a quelling look. 

“I will explain when we are not in public, Jane Foster,” Tony whispered, then turned back to Steve to say, “were the three seashells not available?”

“Yeah, there were some seashells. I checked; there was no toilet paper under them.”

Tony stared back at him like a fish out of water. How uncivilized had the 21st been to not use the three seashells? 

“For fuck’s sake, is nothing—” Steve stopped mid-sentence and turned to look for the buzzing morality box. After a brief pause, he excused himself politely and marched to the dutiful machine that had printed his most recent fine. 

He plucked the ticket off the machine printer, and considered the softened recycled paper between his fingers. 

“Thanks for nothing, you worthless two-dollar whore, goddamn dirtfucking sack of piss-soaked shit,” he told the machine as he plucked off one ticket after another, “you scum-sucking son of a motherless goat.” 

In the gasping silence of the bullpen, Steve thumbed through the substantial stack in his hands. With a quiet hum of satisfaction, he waved the tickets at Tony and gestured for the bathroom. “See you in a few minutes.”

Jane glanced at her superior with palpable concern in her eyes. “What just happened, Lieutenant Tony Stark?”

Tony stared after Steve, dumbfounded. “I guess thawing out is serious business.”

*** 

Fury called another meeting. The gold class lieutenants took their seats around the table, and like the only other time Tony had been included in a strategic deliberation, he remained standing at a short distance away. 

Steve, however, didn’t seem to understand. He followed Tony into the room and watched everyone else filing in and taking the available seats. When nobody acknowledged that they were two seats short, he pointedly turned to look at Tony. 

Sensing a tension from his new ward, Tony lowered his voice to address him urgently. “Captain Steve Rogers, enhance your calm. This will not take long.” 

His words had little effect on Steve, and instead, the Captain turned away from him to address the Chief Director himself. “We need two more chairs.” 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, you are only in attendance for this managerial meeting because it serves our purposes,” the Director reminded him coolly. “I suggest you maintain your silence until such time you are asked to speak. Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark, this is an official warning: control your ward.”

“You want my help, and that gives you permission to treat us like shit?” Steve bit back as Tony finally got between them as a physical barrier. 

“Chief Director, the Captain has not yet had two hours to adjust to our social constitution. I formally request you to be patient. Captain Steve Rogers,” he added, turning to face Steve. “Every minute counts. This is not rude, it is protocol, and this argument you raise is not worth the lives of the citizens we serve.”

There was a brief silence, but even though the contempt was clear in Steve’s eyes, he inclined his head just enough for Tony to understand. Relief washed over him, and Tony quietly instructed Steve to step back and stand with him against the wall as the meeting resumed. 

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” Fury said as he began the meeting again. “The computers have completed their analyses and calculations. They have determined that Brock Rumlow will appear next in order to acquire pharmaceuticals for unsanctioned narcotics development, and later in his subsequent recruitment of a crime syndicate. The best opportunity for apprehending Brock Rumlow is in the first stage of his villainous crimes. I want patrol groups of eight lieutenants positioned at every chemical laboratory—”

“What for?”

All heads turned to stare at Steve, again. All, but one. Fury glared at Tony from across the conference table, and without a word Tony could feel the rising fear that he was failing. This was his chance to demonstrate his aptitude and maturity, and he couldn’t even prevent his insubordinate charge from speaking out of line. 

“Why would Rumlow want to start a damn business?” Steve continued when nobody answered him. “Are you under the impression that he’s trying to make some cash?”

“Our society is beyond cash, Captain,” one of the gold class lieutenants seated at the table replied with a smug twist of her lips. “Credits are passed using codes, which by the brilliant Governor Alexander G. Pierce’s ingenious design cannot be stolen.”

Steve was silent after the woman’s explanation, then in irritated bewilderment, he turned to Tony with a shrug, as if to say, ‘so what?’ 

“What Lieutenant Gramsci is referring to are individual codes,” Tony explained and held up his left hand. “You have one, also. Credits pass directly through the codes and cannot be used by others without explicit authorization.”

“So, what you’re saying is he can’t access credits until he learns to tear someone’s hand off,” Steve replied dryly, and gasps of horror and small grunts of nausea sounded from around the table. 

“I… I suppose you are not inaccurate, Steve Rogers,” Tony replied with an uncomfortable tremble in his voice. 

Steve, however, could barely contain his frustration. “Listen, money doesn’t mean shit to Rumlow. He’s not trying to start a goddamn business, he’s here to ruin your fucking lives and burn this city to the ground. All he needs is firepower.”

In the distance, a morality box buzzed. 

“Our computer’s algorithms are more effective and efficient than one meat-eater’s suspicions,” Fury replied with a low, dangerous bite in every word. “It has considered every feasible scenario in order to calculate his next target. Do not project your own inclination for violence onto others, Captain Steven G. Rogers. Just because you fail to contain your primal urges does not mean that he cannot.”

“Would you two knock me up! We have no time to waste,” Tony all but shouted at them both. Beside him, Steve groaned. 

“Knock it off,” he muttered quietly. “That’s… ‘knock me up’ means something else.”

“Then, knock it off! Chief Director, you requested and trusted my assessment to bring the Captain into the fold for his experience and expertise apprehending the multi-MDK maniac. In light of our recent failures and unsanctioned loss of life, I urge you most desperately to consider Captain Steve Rogers’ advice.”

“I acknowledge your rational intervention, Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” Fury replied in a way that made it very clear how he felt about being interrupted multiple times. “I will also acknowledge the Captain’s advice when his suggestions are conceivable. Yet this alarmist disquietude is repulsive. The only place to even view firearms designed by any fashion of his imagination is at a museum.”

The palpable irritation faded from Steve’s expression as he stood tall and turned to Fury with a newfound focus. 

“Where is this museum?” 

*** 

The museum was housed in Governor Pierce’s compound, a sleek, conical glass building comprised of his offices, his administrative staff, and a cultural history reflecting humanity’s moral decay and New Yorseylvania’s resurrection from the ashes. 

For Rumlow, the museum’s Hall of Violence was a home away from home. The exhibit began with the crudest weapons, tracing mankind’s violent history from barbaric clubs, stone axes, pitchforks, arrowheads, to the Western Colt revolver and the old reliable Thompson made iconic in the days of Al Capone. 

He wandered past the excitable Girl Scouts hopping on the glass panels built into the floor that revealed the ongoing archeological excavation of 21st century Jersey City, and senior couples marveling at the use of ivory in the antique weaponry. Rumlow smirked to himself as he walked through time, passing decades of advancements in weapons technology by moving from one display to the next. Here, the sighting system of the 1980s; there, the portable threats posed by pocket-sized explosives developed in the 1990s. The digital revolution of the mid-2000s soon followed, and with it, the information wars of the early 21st. 

But Rumlow wasn’t there for archaic relics of his own time. This was the future, damnit. Where were the phaser guns? 

It wasn’t long before he found something that fit the bill. 

The exhibit plaque described it as a Magnetic Accelerator Gun, or AcMag. It was from the late 21st century, and it manipulated magnetic fields to pulverise its target. 

Rumlow’s life had become an embarrassment of riches. All these treats gathered and assembled for him, without so much as a security guard to stand in his way. Somehow, a thieving patron was inconceivable. They’d even left a cannon from the US Civil War on display in the middle of the open room, complete with its accompanying gunpowder and cannonballs. Nothing stood between Rumlow and the AcMag except a sheet of reinforced glass. 

Brock smirked to himself as he tapped on the glass case. It was too think to punch his way through, but getting his hands on his prize was only a matter of leverage. 

*** 

Steve and a handful of brave New Yorseylvanian peace officers arrived in time to see masses of museum patrons fleeing the Governor’s compound. 

In an effort to minimize collateral damage, Steve instructed Bruce and Tony to help direct all patrons a safe distance away from the building. Armed only with a stun baton and a whistle, Steve went in after Rumlow alone. After all, the serum made him stronger and faster - even with a scattered collection of weapons, Rumlow would be an easy match without Hydra at his back. 

But the man Steve faced in the aptly named Hall of Violence was not a mortal man. His punches were powerful enough to bruise Steve’s bones, his feet nimble enough to slip away at every turn. Steve bowled Brock to the floor with an iron cannonball, put him through a wall, and still the man wouldn’t stop. With another cannonball, Rumlow broke the floor to ceiling window of the exhibit and leapt out of his impromptu second storey exit. 

Steve gave chase, and Rumlow had expected it. His feet had only reached the ground when Rumlow pitched the cannonball into Steve’s gut at an inhuman speed. Steve collapsed where he stood, choking on blood and air while Rumlow sprinted away. 

Not again. Steve could not let Rumlow slip through his fingers one more time. 

“Medics are on the way, Steve Rogers!” he heard Tony shouting through the haze of pain, but it didn’t matter. Rumlow was disappearing into the distance, while half a dozen New Yorseylvanian peace officers openly gawped after him. 

With a great effort, Steve rose to his feet. His injuries prevented him from sprinting at top speed, but even at a fast jog, Steve zipped past most baseline humans. Through the impressed applause of his fellow officers who were comfortably lounging in the gardens with civilian bystanders, Steve ran after the criminal on foot with Tony sprinting after him, struggling to keep up. 

By the time Steve caught up to Rumlow, the villain had circled around the compound and taken an older man hostage. 

Or, was he talking to the old man? Steve knew from bitter experience that Rumlow needed no more than two seconds to put a bullet through someone’s heart. Despite his efforts, it took Steve five times as long to catch up with them. 

“Stay with him!” he shouted back to Tony, gesturing at the old man as he passed him. Steve continued after Rumlow alone, rounding a low, decorative hedge in the shape of tulips Rumlow had dashed through, but that bastard was nowhere to be seen. Steve spun every direction, peering after the man and listening carefully in an effort to find the cadence of his sprinting feet, but Rumlow had well and truly gone up in smoke. 

“Steve Rogers, you were magnificent!” Tony cried in a burst of excitement, and, reluctantly, Steve gave up on Rumlow to face Tony. In his effort to keep up with Steve, Tony was struggling to catch his breath and even stand, but still his face shone with a beaming grin of excitement.

“Never could I have imagined your legendary accomplishments could be true, Steve Rogers, but now you are before my eyes and there is no other truth. With your help, I have no doubt we will soon apprehend the cruel maniac,” Tony rushed to say between his gulping breaths, “it is only a matter of time before we all can witness you blow him off!”

Steve blinked and stared. “Blow him _away_ ,” Steve eventually, and very pointedly, corrected him when another voice cleared their throat as a polite interruption. Steve and Tony turned as one to see the old man Rumlow had briefly held up approaching them with a bald man in pink and beige robes following in his shadow. 

“They tell me you are Captain America, or Captain Steve Rogers,” the old man said, his voice deep and soothing. Despite the scene only moments ago, he spoke without a hint of fear. “Your heroism saved the lives of myself, my associate, and countless museum patrons from a most egregious villain. I trust you cherish the peace and beauty of our perfect society as much as we welcome your revival.”

Steve glanced at Tony, but Tony was too starstruck to notice. Whoever this man was, Tony’s full attention was on him. Steve frowned to himself. What did he have left to lose?

“Sure, you’re welcome. Who’re you?”

To his left, Tony whimpered in muted horror. He hurried to clear his throat and to address Steve in a strict, businesslike tone. 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, this is our most venerable Governor Alexander G. Pierce. He is the savior of New Yorseylvania, and the genius mind behind the marvelous technological advancements that keep our society thriving and safe.”

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, in honor of your arrival, and your protection of the sanctity of human life, namely my own, I wish for you to join me for dinner tonight. The both of you,” he added with a pointed look at Tony that practically left Steve’s steward swooning. “I insist. You must accompany me to Taco Bell this evening.”

Taco fucking Bell? Steve could probably do with a dozen or so chalupas, but Pierce had said it with such a grave formality, and, if Tony hadn’t already looked ready to faint, the mention of Taco Bell had nearly done him in. Steve could only stare and nod for some time before he found his voice.

“Uh. I guess? If you insist. We can hit up Taco Bell tonight.” 

Pierce’s smile shone like a diamond, which was to say, it didn’t. “Terrific,” he said, his pleasant voice uncomfortably sharp around his perfect, pearly white teeth. “Regretfully, Captain, I must return to work now, but I assure you, I await your reputable company with great composure.”

*** 

“Why did we agree to such a rushed affair! You have no change of clothes in your possession,” Tony vented out loud while pacing the length of his office. Steve wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but Tony had been bent out of shape since the incident with Pierce. Either way, it gave Steve time to work. While Tony muttered to himself and conferred with the computer about several ‘necessary commodities,’ as he called it, Steve took over Tony’s computer terminal. There his body could finish healing while he studied different maps of the city and worked backwards to trace Rumlow’s movement so far. 

There was a knock at the door as Jane announced herself. “Lieutenant Tony Stark, Lieutenant Bruce Banner informed me of what vexes you. May I be of assistance?”

“Officer Jane Foster, what a relief! There are no clothes available for Captain Steve Rogers, and none available to purchase that respect his measurements. He requires an escort to the tailor for evening attire fit to dine with our distinguished Governor, and delivery directly to Taco Bell at six o’clock. Would you be able to do this for me?”

Steve lifted his head and started to pay attention once a real concrete plan started to be explained. Nobody had yet explained why a police uniform, and especially one so formal and well made as the one he had been given, was unsuited for Taco Bell. 

“You are my friend and steadfast mentor, Lieutenant Tony Stark,” Jane replied without hesitation. “On this occasion that I may help you in return, I gladly accept. Captain Steven G. Rogers,” she said as she stepped up to the desk where Steve was working. “If you do not require food or use of lavatories, I request that we depart at once. We have much to accomplish and little time to do so.”

“...Stark, don’t you think you’re blowing this a little out of proportion?” he said in a dubious drawl. “It’s fucking Taco Bell.”

Tony tore off the ticket from the morality box and added it to the growing collection on his desk. “Steve Rogers, it would take me a long time to explain, and I promise to do so at the earliest opportunity. Until then, Captain, I am your steward, and I cannot help you assimilate unless you place your faith in me.” 

With reluctant feet and a quiet sigh, Steve got up from the desk where he was doing real work to follow Jane. “Alright, fine. I’ll see you at six for dinner?”

“Precisely so, we will reunite there,” Tony promised him, and after he passed a few quick instructions for Jane, Steve followed Jane’s lead out of the precinct. 

“Is it true you have operated an airplane, Captain Steven G. Rogers?” Jane asked as soon as the car doors sealed around them. “Were you up amongst the stars?”

Steve frowned a little and tried not to stare. “Is flying not legal?”

“Due to the numerous hijacked and disappearing planes in the mid-21st, our thoughtful leader Governor Alexander G. Pierce deemed the risk too great to passenger life and unaccounted collateral damage. We are safe here,” she added, though after a short pause she quietly added, “but sometimes, I wonder if it would not be worth the risk to see the stars.”

Her quiet sense of rebellion made Steve smile, and in that realization, he found himself happy to spend the afternoon with Jane. “Airplanes don’t go that far. You’d need a rocket or a space shuttle to see the stars. It is possible, just not with airplanes.” 

Rather than looking upset or disappointed, Jane nodded to herself as she mulled it over. “These rockets and shuttles, they made it possible for people to travel into space?”

Steve nodded slowly, doing his best to keep his commentary to himself this time. “Yes, and they have for over two hundred years.”

“I heard that you chose Tony Stark over Lieutenant Bruce Banner as your steward today,” she said, apropos of nothing, then glanced at Steve with a guileful excitement. “You have astute instincts, Captain Steven G. Rogers. I consider them both my friends, but it is only Tony Stark who will allow me up to the roof of his domicile complex to view the stars far above the city. He will nurture your differences.” 

“That sounds great, but frankly it’s difficult to believe he is a reasonable person if he thinks I need a tailor made outfit for Taco Bell.”

“Your clothing will have to be tailor made because our clothing is not made for your, uh,” she frowned a little as she tried to think of a polite way to explain herself. “Your volume, Captain. Your dimensions are unusual; you are not overweight, simply excessively… muscular,” she finished diplomatically. 

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face and slowly shook his head to himself. Jane seemed about as eager to continue the conversation as he did, so the rest of the short drive passed in silence. It wasn’t until Jane pulled the car into a small lot and parked that she spoke again. 

“I advise you not to speak ill of dining in Taco Bell when we are in public, Captain Steven G. Rogers. Tony has made me aware of what Taco Bell was in your time, but much has changed since then. Most of us will never have the chance to dine at Taco Bell in our lifetimes.”

“This is making less sense the more you explain,” Steve told her after a beat. “Do they still serve burritos?”

“Yes, sir,” Jane confirmed. “Burritos are on their lunch and dinner menus.”

“Then that’s good enough for me,” Steve said, and he climbed out of the car before Jane thought to say anything else. 

No air travel, no celebration of diversity, but apparently Taco Bell was a black tie affair. Nothing about the future made sense. 

*** 

Jane delivered him to a barbershop while the tailors worked on his order. They passed a small number of women and young, beardless men who sat in the comfortable lounge and drank tea in polite silence. Jane, however, didn’t leave Steve’s side after she had arranged for his appointment. There was no place for her to sit or wait, so she stood near the wall in a corner where she was out of the barber’s way but where she and Steve could still easily talk. 

“How different could this be?” Steve pointed out as he was eased back into a cushioned seat. “Sit where you’re comfortable, Foster.”

“Tony Stark trusted me to support you in his stead,” she told him, as if there was nothing unusual about standing sentry at his side in a barbershop. 

They had done a rush job of evening Steve’s hair and beard out with clippers before his release from Cryoprison, but here, the barber took his time. He worked with care, and if Steve closed his eyes, the white noise of shuffling feet and quiet conversation let him imagine he was kicking around in Clarence’s old barbershop around the corner, and Bucky was trying to chat some girl up from the stoop. 

But this wasn’t Clarence, and Steve wasn’t a twenty-something runt back in Brooklyn. This was a meticulous man who studied the shape of Steve’s head and face before wrapping him up in a warm, scented towel. While his beard and skin absorbed the warmth, not-Clarence combed water through Steve’s hair and began cleaning up his haircut. 

“Your face was objectively pleasing before, Captain,” Jane told him with a mischievous little smirk. “Astonishingly, this is an improvement.”

Over the warm folds of the towel wrapped around his face, Steve narrowed his eyes at her. He couldn’t reply without disrupting the barber’s work. 

“And so polite! I am fundamentally impressed, Captain.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but despite himself, he found himself fighting back a laugh. Jane remained silent for the most part after that, allowing the barber to finish his work and only chiming in with a comforting word or two when she noticed Steve trying to catch a glance through the mirror. 

From start to finish, it didn’t take half an hour. Jane conferred the credits and led the way back to the car. 

“Allow me to be the first to tell you that you have quite arresting features. Your overall affectation inspires trust,” Jane told him on the way back to the tailor’s shop. “Should you fail to enjoy your life as an officer of the peace, the career of an actor may be in your future.”

“You have _actors?_ ” Steve blurted out in his shock. “What kind—what?”

“From Tony Stark’s shared stories, I understand your generation’s actors recorded many archival discs. Our actors serve a different function: they are extensions of our venerable Governor’s benevolent guidance. Actors travel with his messages, meeting with children in schools, reporting to community leaders, or otherwise make themselves available to answer questions and report changes to the public.”

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line in his effort not to frown. 

“I think I’ll stick with law enforcement, thanks.” 

Jane responded with a smile, but, thankfully, she said nothing. 

When they returned to the tailor’s shop, they were greeted warmly and Steve was shown to the dressing rooms. Steve had expected anything from a tuxedo or a three-piece suit to a simple dinner jacket and trousers. Never in a thousand years had he imagined a kimono. 

He buttoned on a blue silk vest that had been fitted to within an inch of its life, then tied the matching pants and kimono over it. The dark navy material felt durable and well made, and he threw a couple of punches to see how well it moved with him. 

“This feels good,” was the first thing he told Jane as he stepped out of the dressing room. “How does it look?”

“I am most impressed,” Jane told both Steve and the two tailors waiting to address any concerns. “One cannot guess at the alarming size of your protruding musculature with this design. Even from the back you look less like a murderous meat-eating barbarian. Captain Steven G. Rogers,” she said with a big smile, “To the full extent of my expertise, I deem you officially prepared for your first dining experience at Taco Bell.”

Steve plastered on his USO smile and told himself he had punched Hitler for the two-hundredth time. “Oh, lucky me!”

*** 

The long, private road leading to Taco Bell was lined with palm trees. Fairy lights housed in bright purple bells twinkled in the twilight of the evening, and as much as Steve felt it should be cheesy and intolerable, he couldn’t deny it added to the inexplicably buoyant excitement and mounting anticipation. 

When they reached the restaurant, Steve’s jaw dropped. The marble building gleamed under the light of numerous spotlights, and the stained glass windows inset across the pediment were backlit to highlight the various scenery of farmers and families who smiling labored to harvest the crops presumably intended for Taco Bell’s culinary feast. The crowning feature of the restaurant building was the glass dome that climbed high over the trees, and even from the car, Steve could make out the waiters in their white tuxedos and bedazzled sombreros carrying silver trays of food to the fortunate few who could dine at the top. 

Jane pulled up to the sprawling colonnade that led to the entryway of the building. “Captain Steven G. Rogers, I wish you an effervescent evening. And if I may say so, sir, you look elegant and well suited to this handsome crowd. Should uncomfortable circumstances arise, remember that it is better to be silent, or to simply repeat Tony Stark’s response. He is your steward, and even if you look unusual by copying him, everyone will perceive your action as an endeavour to learn and only think highly of you for your efforts.”

“That’s… helpful, thanks,” Steve mumbled halfheartedly. This was an absolute disaster - did they distinguish between soup spoons and dessert spoons at Taco Bell? What was the rule about fish knife and dinner knife if you ate fish for dinner? Did fancy people even eat burritos?

“Captain?” Jane said after a short silence. “Is the door locked?”

As if on cue, a valet hurried up to the passenger side and opened the door for Steve. Steve rolled his eyes at himself, and with a final shake to get his act together, he thanked Jane again for her help and stepped out of the car. 

“Is it your first time dining with us, sir?” the valet asked with a kind smile. When Steve confirmed her suspicion, the young woman pointed to another woman in the same valet uniform red kimono. “Mina will help you, she has the list of all parties invited for the evening.”

Steve thanked her and instinctively reached for his pocket to offer her a tip for her help, only to realize he didn’t have a pocket, and he had no cash. He floundered for a minute before thanking her again and hurrying away through the well-dressed, mingling crowd.

There weren’t so many people there, but all of them were taking their time, chatting leisurely amongst themselves and ambling in the general direction of Taco Bell’s imposing entrance. Part of Steve wanted to shout at them - what self-respecting New Yorker walked this slowly? He had almost reached Mina and her clipboard when a friendly, familiar voice addressed him from a near distance. 

“Steve Rogers!” Tony said with a smile warm in his voice. “I have been waiting for you.”

Steve spun around and came to an immediate halt at the sight of Tony in his evening wear. He was dressed in a crisp, black kimono, and Steve’s gaze swept over Tony’s strong shoulders, and down his finely made robe that left little to the imagination with its wide, plunging neckline. Under his kimono and framed by the alluring contrast of black fabric against his naked skin, Tony wore delicate silver chains that spilled down from a necklace and drew Steve’s attention down along his long, lean frame. With his every movement, the silver glimmered against Tony’s tan skin as if to remind Steve never to let his his attention stray from this man. 

Tony rushed down the stairs in his excitement to see Steve’s new clothes, and with both pride and admiration he paused here and there to settle the robes right over Steve’s silk vest and fix the starched folds of Steve’s high collar. 

“Steve Rogers, you look better than I could have conceived,” he murmured in praise. 

Steve smiled and patiently waited for Tony to circle back around to catch his eye. “You don’t look that bad yourself, Stark.”

Tony’s smile faded and he blinked at him in confusion, and it wasn’t until Steve noticed the clear look of hurt in Tony’s expression that he realized his mistake. 

“It’s an intentional understatement, it’s—I mean, I don’t mean that literally.” Steve leaned in so people around them wouldn’t overhear. “You’re, you look stunning, Stark. You’ve taken my breath away.”

Tony stared back at him as if he couldn’t believe Steve was speaking such words to him, and like some comic animation, a deep blush rose in Tony’s cheeks. But instead of looking away or shying away from eye contact, Tony seemed spell-bound, and smiled back at Steve as if no other words had ever made him happier. 

“Are you flirting with me, Steve Rogers?” Tony asked him with a impish lilt in his voice. “Your flattery is well met and deeply appreciated. Since you do it so well, I invite you to compliment me as often as you please.”

Steve stared for a moment, impressed and somewhat taken aback by Tony’s unexpectedly cheeky playfulness. “You’ll have to earn it, Stark. In my time, we would say the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Feed me well,” he added in a low, intimate whisper, “and you’ll be my world.”

“How fortuitous that we establish these crucial parameters at this moment!” Tony said with a warm, contagious laugh that had Steve squeezing his hands into fists to keep from touching Tony. “Allow me to treat you to the finest dining available at this peerless Taco Bell.”

*** 

New Yorseylvania’s Taco Bell was a sight to behold. From the tall columns stretching overhead to shoulder broad archways, to the decorative mosaic floor, all aspects of the restaurant were built with flawless black and white marble. Rich, plum-colored velvet curtains were gathered at the sides of every window and archway, adding an ironic elegance to the Taco Bell palette. A mariachi band played in the entry hall of the restaurant, creating a tasteful atmosphere for the restaurant patrons to enjoy as they stood in line to order their meal at the counter. 

Compared to the internet and smartphones of the 21st century, Taco Bell should not have been that confusing. Still, between the uncomfortable misappropriation of an ethnic identity that never belonged to Taco Bell in the first place, and the horror on their menu, Steve was ready to bolt by the time it was their turn to order. 

“Welcome to Taco Bell!” a young woman behind the counter greeted him with false cheer. “May I take your order?”

“I would like the mushroom, tofu, and kimchi chalupa supreme combo, and a tall honeydew agua fresca,” Tony said, then he turned to Steve. 

Steve wanted to cry. Flavored condoms sounded more appetizing. 

“I…” he started to say, but no words seemed to follow. He reminded himself of Jane’s advice, and as politely as he could, he stuck to the truth. “I’m afraid nothing caught my eye. Would it be possible to order off the menu?”

“Sir, of course. At Taco Bell, we strive to accommodate all allergies, preferences, and sensitivities. What could we prepare for you?”

“Could we look at the juvenile menu?” Tony asked before Steve had a chance to answer, and the young woman quickly complied. 

Steve stared down at the menu in shock. Unlike the unreasonable combinations of the regular menu, the children’s menu sounded delicious. 

“Could I have four black bean tacos with roasted sweet potatoes and poblano peppers, six grilled shrimp on slaw, six roasted corn and chickpea, and, uh. A second agua fresca.”

She punched in his order without pause. “Will that be for here or to go?”

Steve bit down on his lips before he either laughed or cried in her face while Tony explained that they were part of the Governor’s party. The woman completed their order, and instructed them on how to reach the glass dome and the Governor’s regular table from there. 

A dozen men and women were already seated at the Governor’s table when Steve and Tony arrived. With a subtle nod from his assistant, Governor Pierce stood to greet them. 

“Captain Steven Rogers,” he said with a gracious smile directed only at Steve, “the hero of the hour. I congratulate and thank you, for the preservation of my own life and the sanctity of our great city.”

Steve stared at him for a moment, at a loss for words. “You’re… welcome?”

“Greetings and salutations, I am Associate Bob Sitwell,” the Governor’s assistant introduced himself with a low bow. “We met earlier, but I was groveling in fear the time. You have had a remarkable day in New Yorseylvania, Captain Steven Rogers. Chasing a real criminal!”

“Yes. Chasing a criminal. Imagine that,” Steve observed dryly, and without another word, he stepped away to take his seat. Tony followed him after a momentary hesitation. 

“Captain Steven Rogers,” said a woman who was dressed in a silk gown matching the Taco Bell color scheme. Steve tried to look her in the eyes instead of staring at the conical hat on her head. “We decided amongst ourselves that you simply must tell us of the crude ways of the 21st century.”

“Yes!” the man beside her cried in morbid excitement. “Share with us the gorey insights of living in a sick, decaying pit of suffering and interracial hate.”

“With all due respect,” Tony spoke up, speaking through gritted teeth despite his polite address. It was only then that Steve realized everyone besides them at the table was dripping in gold jewelry, and what that meant for someone in Tony’s position. “Refrain from asking my ward such insensitive and hurtful questions. His courage and selfless actions saved the life of our most benevolent Governor earlier today, he is not here for your vile amusement.”

Steve was still staring at Tony in awe when he heard the Governor speak up in his deep, soothing voice. “I must concur with the silver class officer,” Pierce intoned with a kindness that struck Steve as scripted. “Steven Rogers, could you perhaps share with us your first impressions of our serene New Yorseylvania, 2164? I only hope the unusual circumstances of your early probation has not interrupted the tranquility you carried with you from the Cryo-Prison system.”

“Tranquility?” Steve echoed in quiet disbelief. “I relived the war, my worst nightmares, the week-long trail of bodies leading to Rumlow’s arrest—I felt nothing else for a hundred and forty-seven years,” Steve told him in slow, measured words. “You think you did me a favor? I was trapped in my body for over a century, all for doing my job. ”

“You were awake?” 

Steve turned to see what Tony had whispered, but before he could ask, Tony’s pale, stricken face gave him pause. 

“A person would go insane,” Tony breathed, too shocked to even speak. “How could this be? Is there no exit survey?”

Steve stared at him. “Exit…. survey? From prison?”

“It is intended as rehabilitation, Steve Rogers, not a punishment,” Tony tried to explain, but Pierce spoke up before he could continue. 

“I am saddened and stunned. As the silver class officer says,” he said in the same calm, serene voice he’d greeted them with earlier, “I pioneered these facilities in order to end the brutality of prison, such that even those victimized by their circumstances into criminal behavior can have a chance—”

Steve zoned out of what sounded like a well-practiced speech. Where was their food? He kept casting glances around them, hoping to catch a server with food that looked like his mountain of vegetarian tacos, but nobody seemed to be coming their way. Instead, he started to appreciate the view instead. The glass dome of Taco Bell really did give them a view for miles around, and while the exotic trees were indistinct under the cover of darkness, the lights were breathtaking. Unlike the harsh, unnatural city lights Steve had learned to associate with the future the first time he came out of the ice, this city looked like a fairy tale. It glowed, warm and inviting. He realized quickly that the cars of the future didn’t have headlights, but they emanated a gentle glow themselves, lighting the immediate area around them in every direction as they zipped past each other. 

The happy Taco Bell patrons lingered under the colonnades, flashing smiles and jewelry at their pleasure. Steve was starting to wonder what special attraction this 22nd century society had to light and shiny things when a moving shape in the shadows caught his eye. 

It was a person, concealed in darkness between the palm trees. 

“Captain Steven Rogers, if there is anything I can do to right this wrong,” Steve heard the Governor say to him, and absently he shook his head. He had been wrong. There were multiple shadows moving through the shadows. 

As a small truck pulled up Taco Bell, the figures drew closer. 

“Stark, call for backup,” he said to Tony without so much as looking at Pierce. “I’ll be across the street.”

Tony blinked at him in shock. Steve had already left the table and marching away when Tony managed to stutter, “But—Steve Rogers, why? What is happening—”

Steve didn’t stop to answer him. The figures were moving quickly, and like some gastronomic horror film, there was no quick exit from Taco Bell. 

*** 

The truck pulled around to the back of Taco Bell when Steve reached the ground floor. He pushed his way past the handful of people in his way, rushing so he could keep it in sight when a motorcycle skidded past. The rider swung a heavy chain at Steve’s head, and for the first time in this century, Steve felt alive. For the first time, he knew what to do; he knew who he was and what he needed to do. 

Steve caught the chain and planted his feet. With one firm pull, he plucked the rider clean off and threw him into the marble walls of Taco Bell. The bike veered off uncontrollably into the truck, and from out of the shadows five more figures rushed after it. Steve took off in a dead sprint to intercept them when a series of explosions blew two tires and the side door off the truck. 

Artillery and gunfire had long prepared Steve not to flinch, but the multiple blasts and raining concrete didn’t visibly affect the four filthy, shabbily dressed figures dashing for the truck either. 

It was a robbery, it was so clearly a planned robbery, but there were only four of them. Steve launched himself at them. Even for baseline humans, it was too easy. Their faces were all covered in black cloth, and their protective clothing was no stronger - what they wore was already patchy and falling off their bodies. Scrappy as they were, it was laughably easy for Steve to hold them back with only elbows and knees. 

Two men were immobilized and he was grappling a third into submission when two jumped on him from behind. He was too heavy for them to control, but together they were able to free Steve’s captive until more of them arrived. For a moment, Steve almost rocked back on his heels to see dozens of these figures dressed in black rushing at the truck. 

There wasn’t money or gold in that damn truck: it was food. Fresh produce and bottled water. 

With a heave, Steve rose to his feet, carrying the weight of the three assailants on his back. He threw them either way, kicking one in the gut, punching the other two as they fell off of him like insects. 

From behind the cover of a falling body, one lone figured rushed at Steve in attack. Every punch landed with unwavering confidence, every kick devastating. In his surprise, Steve fell back on the defensive. For one, surreal moment, blow after blow forced him down on his knees. As he protected his face and his torso, he could see out of the corner of his eyes as the black-clad figures dashed off into the shadows with food and water clutched to their bodies. 

A whole attack just for food and water? 

Between the vicious battery he was fending off and the inexplicable target of the attack, Steve was startled by a chorus of giddy whoops of excitement. He turned his face to see what had happened, and when his assailant tried to capitalize on his exposed cheek to knock him out, Steve swung back and caught their fist. 

Steve glared at his masked attacker over their joined hands. It would have been so easy to break this person’s wrist; just a snap of his hand, and their bones would splinter like dry kindling. 

He could have sworn he recognized the green eyes staring back at him. 

That one heartbeat of doubt was all it took. His attacker kicked him in the gut with steel-toed boots and wrestled themselves free. 

He could have given chase. He would have caught them, too, and probably rounded up a handful of the thieves. But for what? Instead, he turned to watch them all scatter into the night. They hadn’t laid a hand on anyone but him, they had not attacked or stole anything except the delivery truck of food. 

Tony rushed to his side, his face bright with gleeful excitement. 

“What a marvelous display, Steve Rogers! You licked his ass!” he cheered, practically bouncing in place at Steve’s side. The Governor and his faithful assistant trailed after Tony at a much calmer pace. 

Steve needed a moment of silence before he could respond. 

“ _Kicked_ his ass,” he eventually told Tony before making his own demands. “What was that, Stark? Why are they stealing food?”

“They are Scraps, voluntary outcasts from our peaceful society,” Pierce answered Steve with measured words. “They cower in abandoned tunnels and sewers, where they live off the scraps they find or steal.”

“Captain Steve Rogers, if you could only feel how my heart beats for you. You fill me with joy-joy feelings the way you do battle with that quarrelsome Scrap! You are more fearsome and mighty than on laserdisc—”

“Stark!” Steve snapped in a sudden rage. “Those are people! Living, breathing people like you and me. Hurting people is not a good time. Well, okay, sometimes it is…” he conceded quietly before returning to his point. “But they didn’t look like anything more than a bunch of desperate people trying not to starve. This is a future you’re celebrating?” he snarled at Tony and the Governor. “Shunning people in need because they’re not like you?”

The Governor stared back at Steve in displeased silence, but beside him, Tony looked ready to cry from the shock of Steve’s anger. Steve couldn’t stand to look at either of them. 

If Pierce had calming words to offer, Steve had no interest in hearing them. He marched away from the scene of the crime without a look back. 

*** 

Tony didn’t speak the whole drive home, and for that, Steve was grateful. If he had to hear one more word about ‘venerable Governor Alexander G. Pierce,’ he was going to start throwing punches. On one hand, Steve was glad this long, impossible day was finally over, but on the other hand, he was growing increasingly concerned with the presumed sleeping arrangements. He had been frozen for decades, his skin ached to be touched, and thanks to the adrenaline spike following the chaos outside Taco Bell, his blood was still pumping in overtime for any kind of gratifying release. 

If bed sharing was expected of him, this terrible night was going to take a turn for the even worse. 

Tony pulled the cruiser into a small lot attached to a tall, glossy building full of overhanging greenery, small waterfalls, and spacious balconies. There were only four open parking spaces in front of the building, and Tony pulled into one seemingly at random. Steve watched as the steering wheel retracted into the dashboard, and as they made their way onto the curb, the parking spot smoothly separated from the rest of the pavement and sunk underground, carrying the car to an unseen parking facility beneath them while another slab of pavement moved into place to expect the next resident’s conveyance vehicle. 

Steve followed Tony’s lead into the apartment building. Tony unlocked the building’s front door with a retinal scan, and engaged the elevator with his palm print. 

“We reside on the 54th floor, Steve Rogers,” Tony told him then, a little too matter of factly for Steve’s conscience. “I have procured you a domicile down the corridor from my own. I have also coded your palm print as a double of my own: what you wish to purchase, you may, wherever you wish to go, you may to the extent that a silver class adult may.”

Steve blinked at him in confusion. “I thought silver class adults were only restricted from getting married. There’s a bigger difference?”

“You are correct, Steve Rogers! I applaud your mind, you are already learning,” Tony said with a smile. “As you have said, only gold class adults are eligible for state sanctioned partnerships. Gold class adults can also enter managerial positions and leadership roles. They can be politicians, doctors, lawyers.”

“You are a patient teacher,” Steve said with a distracted smile. The way Tony’s face changed from the stern silence some seconds ago to this sudden burst of pride was the change of night and day, and distracting as he was, Steve couldn’t help his straying thoughts. These bureaucratic complications were extensive and too integrated into every aspect of daily life; they could not be without their purpose. But for whose benefit were they? 

As they arrived to their floor, Tony led them down to the left. “My domicile is this way,” he started to explain. He showed Steve how to open the scanning pad, then invited Steve to press his palm to the scanner himself. “It will not hurt, Steve Rogers. Just a light touch will do.”

Steve glanced at Tony and wondered if he should break the news that palm scanning was a thing ‘back in the 21st.’ But rather than disillusioning Tony’s romantic view of the archaic 21st, Steve took his gloves off and gently pressed his open palm to the scanner. 

The palm reader wasn’t glass, or crystal, or the strange plastic cover of the touch screens Steve had started to get used to the last time around. This was a cool, blue gel that pooled around his fingers until his hand was fully submerged to the wrist. The mechanisms behind the door gave a series of quiet beeps, then all at once, the gel emptied from the reader to allow Steve to remove his hand, clean and dry to the touch. 

“Does that read my whole hand?” Steve wondered, looking down at his dry hand with surprise. 

“To keep one’s domicile even safer, yes, Steve Rogers,” Tony said as the doors to his home slide apart to allow them in. Tony gestured for Steve to walk in first. “Most other silver class transactions will only require your palm print.”

Steve took two steps into the darkened room, and Tony followed. “Inside, everything is voice coded. Whatever you need, you need only ask. Tracking lights,” he added, and the lights came on in the room. 

They were standing in the entryway of Tony’s living room. It was not large, but it was plenty for one, and to the right, there was even a small dining area leading to a kitchen. All of the furniture in the living room, the dining room, and what of the kitchen that Steve could see from the doorway, was a compulsive man’s nostalgic ode to 60’s diners that never existed in the 60’s. Posters set in glossy white frames hung in the living room to commemorate Carl Sagan’s _Cosmos_ in the 80’s and Neil deGrasse Tyson’s continuation later in the 21st, and over Tony’s chrome rimmed, white finish tables hung framed posters of _Food, Inc._ and _King Corn_. 

In the far end of the living room, a poster of a distantly familiar man in Steve’s old USO costume was glaring back at him from a Captain America: The Marvel of Humanity poster. Steve couldn’t look away. 

“What do you think?” Tony asked as calmly as he could, though his excitement was so overwhelming that Steve could practically feel him vibrating from two feet away. 

“It’s very… is that supposed to be me?” Steve finally had to ask, gesturing at the chiseled cheekbones and decorative stars and stripes. 

Tony blinked wildly in his sudden embarrassment. “I, uh. Presumably, yes, Steve Rogers. But I assure you, Jason Statham’s outward appearance does not do you justice. Neither does his voice. However, his fighting skills are exceptional, and, I suspect, why he was selected to portray you.” 

“The Fast and the Furious guy? That’s how you pictured me?”

Tony’s look of embarrassment turned into confusion. “What are the Fast and the Furious?” he asked after a beat. “Is it an archival film about speeding? I have yet to find such research on your time, but our historical directories attribute many tragic events to the combined behaviors of drinking and driving, texting and driving, and screening and driving.”

Steve frowned to himself, but found he couldn’t stop himself from asking. He needed to know. “Stark, what is screening and driving?”

“The practice of viewing films while driving a vehicle. Our self-driving conveyances are a relatively recent modification on the standard automobile, the technology is not thirty years old,” Tony explained as he led the way further into his apartment and offered Steve a place to get comfortable. “Would you like some water, Steve Rogers? I can also make ginger tea, or warm almond milk with honey and cinnamon. That was my mother’s favorite at the end of a long day.”

While Tony played host in the kitchen, Steve scanned the living room for a place to sit. The couch looked so soft it might swallow him whole, and the arm chairs looked so new and delicately made that he was afraid of breaking them under his weight. He was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room when Tony re-entered the room.

“Are you feeling peckish, Steve Rogers?” Tony wondered and held up a large platter he had prepared. There were a variety of semi-soft cheeses, jams, crackers, olives, fruits and nuts arranged around a large pot of hummus and two smaller pots of honey. 

But Steve’s gaze swept over Tony’s strong hands and forearms, over his finely made robes, and down the trail of glimmering silver chains decorating his bared chest. All Steve needed was Tony, and if Tony was amendable, the two pots of honey. 

“I recall Taco Bell did not cater to your expectations. If I may redeem the night,” he said, holding out the platter to make his point more clear, “please allow me.”

Steve scratched at the back of his head, and looked anywhere but at Tony. It had been a long hundred and forty some-odd years. But Tony, unaware of Steve’s source of frustration, cleared his throat again. 

“If the decorative touches in my domicile put you ill at ease, Steve Rogers,” he started, sounding a touch apologetic. “You are welcome to take this with you - I can show you to your domicile at once.”

“No, Stark,” Steve said with a wry twist of his lips. “That’s not—you have not put me ill at ease. It’s been a long day, and to be frank, that whole… the raid is still on my mind. How can you be so advanced and leave others to starve?”

Tony’s regained spark of attention faded at Steve’s question, and he walked around to set the platter on his coffee table and take a seat on the couch. Steve could either sit beside him on the soft couch, or on a hand-carved armchair. 

He tried the armchair. It didn’t break. 

“Scraps are not like us, Steve Rogers. They are people who have elected to denounce Governor Alexander G. Pierce’s generous and inclusive way of life. Not one of them would be turned away should they register and assimilate to the Governor’s rules. They would never know hunger or thirst. Instead they choose to live underground, defiling our government buildings and pilfering scarce commodities.”

Steve stared at the cheese plate Tony had prepared and tried to parse out what that information could mean outside of Tony’s blind faith in their Governor. 

“Steve Rogers?” Tony asked then in a quiet tone, but this time he sounded more embarrassed than unsure. “First, do you have further questions regarding the events that took place at Taco Bell this evening?”

Steve considered the information he had already been given, then shook his head. 

“Then may I change our topic of conversation?” Tony asked with patient words, doing his utmost not to rush Steve. When Steve agreed, he continued in the same way. “There is a well-known and documented connection between sex and violence, Steve Rogers. I am confident this was known in your time also. Not a causal effect, of course, but a shared state of general neurological arousal. Although this is highly irregular for a mentor to ask of his ward, your age deems it arguably appropriate, and after observing your vigorous intervention of the vexing vagrant menace, I find it impossible to resist my existing admiration for you to become sexual in nature. I do not know if I am the type of man to inspire the same condition in you, but if this is the case, would you like to have sex?”

The question caught Steve entirely off guard. He stared at Tony for some time before asking, “With you?” When Tony nodded in the affirmative, Steve had another follow-up clarification question. “Tonight?”

“Yes, Steve Rogers.”

They had told him that sex was illegal, and there was no doubt in Steve’s mind that Tony would never stray from this Governor-for-life’s outlined way of life. But maybe ‘sex’ only extended to reproductive sex, and same-sex couples were not denied the natural pleasures consenting adults could enjoy together. 

“Uh, sure,” Steve eventually managed. It had been a hundred and forty seven years, did he really want to question his luck? “But could you call me Steve?” 

Tony’s face lit up with delight, and he got to his feet at once. “If that will make you more comfortable, I will endeavour to do so for the time that we have sex. Allow me to get ready.”

He rushed out of the living room and out of sight. Steve blinked at the space around him, wondering if he was meant to follow, or if Tony wanted to have sex in the living room. Somehow, Steve doubted the man was wild enough to have sex outside of a bed. But Tony hadn’t asked him to follow, so Steve tried to get more comfortable in his armchair and wait. Instead, he cupped his hands in front of his mouth to check his breath and lifted his arms to sniff at his armpits. The shower at the prison had been a rinse at best, and he hoped the stale smell of his body was only in his imagination. 

When Tony returned a handful of minutes later, he had stripped out of his kimono and wrapped himself in a white robe instead. The delicate silver chains still gleamed against his tan skin, and robbed Steve of what little attention he still had left. 

“Here you are, Steve,” Tony murmured softly, handing Steve a towel and a strange, egg-colored helmet that Steve would have expected in the NFL. Was this a 21st century fantasy of Tony’s that he hoped to live out now that he had a larger man to role play with? Clearly, the man was kinkier than Steve had imagined, but if that got him going, Steve could roll with it. Blitz the neutral zone with a Hail Mary, or something like that. 

But instead of straddling Steve’s lap (like Steve had hoped) or kneeling between Steve’s thighs (like Steve had fantasized), Tony sat down a polite distance away on the couch with his own helmet and towel. 

“The on switch is over the right cheek,” he told Steve as he put on his own helmet and flicked it on. “Now, you only need to relax. We will begin momentarily. Dim lights,” he added to the room at large, and the warm lights mellowed to a dim evening glow. 

Steve blinked down at the helmet in his hands. “Begin what?”

Tony grinned at him like he’d made some silly joke and shook his head. “Having sex, of course. Put it on.”

It wasn’t Steve’s place to kinkshame anyone, but this was beginning to push a boundary he wasn’t all that sure about. But he would try anything twice, so he did as Tony asked and put on the helmet. 

The next time he blinked, a series of sudden lights flashed behind his eyes. Soon his mind was filled with a vision of Tony floating above him, gazing down at Steve with lust clear in his eyes and a playful laugh warm between them. His silky, diaphanous robe billowed gently around his body, and as Tony floated closer, the waistband around Tony’s robe started to unfurl, and inch for inch, the robe peeled further away from his shoulders to reveal naked, tan skin and the glimmering silver adornments framing his lean, muscular body— 

Steve sat up with a grunt of alarm and tore the helmet off. Tony jumped at the sudden interruption, and a part of Steve intended to crush the unnatural machine between his bare hands until he realized Tony was staring at him with concern. Instead, he quickly put it a safe distance away from himself on the floor, and eyed it with a mixture of anxiety and suspicion. 

“What’s wrong, Steve?” Tony asked, edging closer on the couch in case Steve was hurt. “You broke contact, are you unwell?”

“Broke contact?” Steve echoed in disbelief. “Contact? You call that—I haven’t touched you yet, what was that, Tony?”

Hearing his first name so casually used to address him turned Tony into a blushing mess. He licked his lips and placed his own helmet on the couch beside him as he tried to focus on the conversation and understand Steve’s concern. “I’m confused,” he admitted with a soft tremble in his voice. “I thought you wanted to make love. Virtusex has been proven to producer higher orders of alpha waves during digitized transference of sexual energies, and this is the most reliable model on the market. Was the visual not satisfactory?” 

“Visual? Sex isn’t visual,” Steve answered on impulse. “That’s porn—pornography. I don’t, that’s not my thing, Tony, I, sex is about a growing closer and learning about each other, building a physical connection—”

Tony grew more and more pale with every word Steve spoke, and almost looked nauseous by the end. “Captain Steven Grant Rogers,” he interjected suddenly, horrified. “Are… you are speaking of, of. Of fluid transfer?”

“Fluid transfer?” Steve repeated slowly, unsure of whether this was some alarming trend that he’d never become aware of, or if Tony was legitimately concerned about saliva. “I’m talking about sex, fucking, boning, making the beast with two backs, the horizontal tango, laying pipe, the—I don’t know, hanky panky, the hunka chunka, there’s a thousand ways to say it and about a dozen different ways to do it, how complicated can it be?”

“Complicated?” Tony cried, shooting to his feet in outrage as he moved on from horrified to outright offended. Instinctively, Steve copied him so that they stood face to face, so Tony would not have the satisfaction of talking down to him. “Steven G. Rogers, that is no longer done! Rampant exchanges of bodily fluids was one of the major downfalls of society! After AIDS there was NRS, and then came UBT, a death sentence. Outlawing fluid transfer was one of the first and most important behavioral changes the benevolent Governor Alexander G. Pierce instilled in us, and it has allowed our society to thrive.”

Steve inched closer, and as the distance between their lips became dangerously tempting, Tony backed away. Steve wouldn’t let Tony get away, and he followed him at a collected pace. “Then what about kids, Tony? How do you make them in your incredible future?”

“Procreation is conducted in the lab,” Tony told him matter of factly, turning to face him only to find Steve inches from his face again. He gasped in surprise, then tried to regain his calm to explain. “Fluids are purified, screened, and transferred by authorized medical personnel. For the mother’s safety, children are grown in incubation chambers at medical facilities, where the parents can monitor their growth and visit their children at every stage. It is a peaceful, healthy, and painless procedure.”

“I am not asking to have children with you, Tony,” Steve said more gently, and leaned in closer. “I’m not asking for a commitment. I’m asking for one night, together.”

Before their lips could touch, Tony slipped away and glared at his charge. “You are more savage than I ever imagined, Steven G. Rogers. I wish you to leave my domicile at once. Your place of residence has been arranged four doors to the right. I trust you can find it without my assistance.”

There was no reason left to argue, and Steve had no arguments left to make. He lifted his palms in a universal sign of surrender and walked away. 

*** 

His hand print got him into his own apartment just as Tony had promised. The lights came on as he asked, but instead of the light in Tony’s place that mimicked the 21st century light bulbs Steve was used to, Steve’s apartment was filled with something approaching natural sunlight. His furniture was sturdy and functional, and while they looked comfortable, none of it looked particularly personal. 

Then again, nothing looked like it might break if he sat in it either, and for that he was grateful. 

The only personal touch in the living room was a large, blue tray full of different boxes and items. Some things were immediately recognizable - a set of keys, which seemed anachronistic in this digital future, a fleece blanket with his shield design, and a small note with instructions for how to get in touch with Tony through the apartment’s internal AI in case of various emergencies. 

On the tray there was also a large wooden box. Steve opened it slowly in case something tried to jump out, but the most dangerous surprise he found in there were a set of knitting needles. He eyed the knitting needles and all the yarn Tony had provided for him with suspicion, unsure of how this tied into this insane future. Tony hadn’t said anything about knitting requirements, but at this rate Steve wouldn’t be surprised if knitting a part of the mandated daily routine. 

A soft, mustard colored blended yarn caught his eye. He lifted it in his hands and tested the spun thread between his fingers. There was no information attached to the hefty ball, but instinct told Steve it was a classic tweed, and most likely a blend of cashmere and silk with traditional merino wool. 

Steve dug around for his Size A needles and carried the wool and his needles with him as he inspected the rest of the apartment. The bathroom was as spartan and clinical as he could had feared, but Tony had gone out of his way to provide tissues on the counter to replace the three seashells. The kitchen was spotless and the fridge was well stocked with both ready-made meals and some groceries. A jar of honey sat on his counter alongside a big bowl of walnuts. Nothing else had been placed out for him, but he ignored it for now and grabbed a bottle of water to take along. 

His bedroom was depressing. The bed was obscenely large and low to the ground, and from his bedsheets to the only rug on the floor, everything had been decorated in some shade of grey. Steve dropped his knitting supplies on the bed and sat his bottle of water on the nightstand to inspect his closet. To his surprise, two more police uniforms already hung in there, along with a few conservative robes and kimonos for everyday use. There were towels and linens and extra blankets in the drawers, but besides the delicate, silk house robe, Steve couldn’t locate anything approaching sleep clothes or even underwear. 

He showered and brushed his teeth in silence, never wanting for anything. How Tony had gotten all of this arranged for Steve was really beginning to bother him, but then again, Steve couldn’t imagine any reason why Tony would want to speak with him again that night. He couldn’t even imagine any reason why Tony would receive him as a friend. The whole situation reminded him far too much of the laws against homosexuality and sodomy in the 30’s, and the more he thought about it, the more Steve kicked himself for expecting Tony to casually forget his deeply held beliefs because of one short and emotional conversation. 

The invitation to have sex had fogged Steve’s mind up with near-delirious interest, and with that one-track mind if his, Steve had been crass and selfish in how he treated Tony’s opinions. And now, when Steve could see the evidence of what would happen when the tables were turned, when Tony was given a chance to either belittle or respectfully accommodate Steve’s differences, Steve found himself staggering under the realization of how much time and effort and money Tony must have dedicated to him in the middle of a stressful day to meet Steve’s every need. 

His thoughts were still racing when he crawled into bed. No matter how he tossed and turned, Steve couldn’t get comfortable enough to attempt sleep. Finally, he picked up his yarn and his knitting needles, and sought solace in the mindless, repetitive work. 

*** 

Lights flashed before his eyes as the shell exploded not a dozen yards away from him. Steve could smell the burning flesh long after he walked past the severed limbs and clusters of tattered organs. He heard them call his name, but he couldn’t reach them. Young men, men who had never had a chance to live, men who barely knew what they were dying for, cried out for mercy. 

All around him young men were butchered as they wept and screamed and ran for cover. All of them dead, except for him. He stood there, among them but apart from them, frozen in time and space where he could do nothing but watch as other men sacrificed and gave their lives for freedom, as other men returned to help rebuild the nation. He heard them call his name, but what could he do? Steve was stronger, bigger, and healthier, and still he was that sickly little kid from the 30’s who was destined to linger in the sidelines when it mattered most. 

Twice, he had tried. Twice, he had woken up and learned that none of it mattered. Hydra lived on, and freedom was a failed experiment long abandoned. Around him, lights flashed as landmines tore apart young lives and dreams, and Steve failed to make it matter. He heard them call his name, but nothing he did mattered, he had failed, he had let them die in vain, he let it all die in vain.

“Steve Rogers!” he heard someone shout as his body shook. “Steve Rogers, I demand you wake this instant, you are frightening me and I cannot help you if you continue to sleep!”

Steve jerked back to life with a violent convulsion, swinging his fists at that unfamiliar bodies swarming him. He connected with something, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, and nothing was familiar—it was all dark, it was too silent, it was all very wrong.

“Lights on full,” he heard and he squinted in the sudden sunrise. Then, much closer: “Captain Steven G. Rogers, are you well?”

He blinked up at the body seated at the foot of the bed. Howard? It couldn’t be. Steve and Bucky had been pallbearers at his funeral. He remembered Maria weeping, he remembered the service. 

“Tony?” he murmured, pushing himself up. He rubbed at his chest, pressing the heel of his palm against the mounting pressure choking him. 

A slow, shaky inhale interrupted them for a beat before Tony composed himself. “Are you experiencing pain in your chest, Steve Rogers? Can you breathe without pain?” 

“It’s just a nightmare, Tony,” Steve tried to explain, clearing his throat and swallowing back the bile of guilt. “This is all a nightmare.”

“Enhance your calm, Steve Rogers. I will go no farther than the lavatory and I will return in tick tocks.”

Too many elements of that sentence rubbed Steve the wrong way, but in the time it took Steve to parse out what he most wanted to shout about, Tony was back. 

“It is water. Drink it,” Tony said as he pressed a tall cup with a straw into Steve’s hands. Steve looked at the cup, then looked at Tony. Slowly, he started to believe he was alive again. 

“Your nightmares,” Tony started then a little awkwardly, as if he knew he was walking on eggshells. “You need not speak of them, but if there are ways that I can support you, Steve Rogers, resources I can provide for you or ways that I can help to prevent them, I swear I will not rest until it is done.”

Steve huffed wryly, but somehow Tony sounded too sincere to brush aside. What was he supposed to say, ‘keep your psychedelic sex helmet away from me?’ Given Tony’s reaction, Steve had no doubt he’d blame himself, as if Tony had in any way known that the ‘sex’ could be harmful, or that Steve suffered from PTSD. After all, their society was so irritatingly peaceful that there was a chance Tony didn’t even know what PTSD was. 

Steve kept his thoughts to himself and drank his water slowly. Tony sat on the bed with him at a respectful distance. His robe was barely tied on, and his hair swept around his head in a mess of curls Steve could never have imagined in this world of highly manicured and impeccably groomed people. It was a strange relief to learn that bedhead still existed in the future. 

“It’s very quiet,” Steve eventually admitted. “Too quiet.”

Tony nodded slowly as he tried to understand what Steve meant. “Does that make you feel alone, Steve Rogers?” he wondered. “Would it help if I stayed with you?”

“You would do that?” Steve blurted out, then with a shake of his head, he tried again. “I mean, I thought you could not physically touch another person.”

“I will sleep over the covers,” Tony explained, already getting up to adjust his robes before walking to the unoccupied side of the bed. He was about to get in when he noticed Steve’s handiwork rumpled on top of the bedspread. The sweater Steve had started hours ago was tied off and finished, and Tony held it up with blatant admiration. 

“This is stunning, Steve Rogers,” he whispered, turning it over in his hands. “The attention to detail, the craftsmanship—you truly are a gifted man.”

“It’s for you,” Steve told him, and smiled to himself at the way Tony’s eyes grew wide with excitement. “I wanted to apologize for, you know. Earlier. If you wear that sort of thing.”

“I have never had such a thing to wear. Is this a ‘sweater’?” 

“It is a sweater,” Steve said as Tony gathered it up and walked to the nearest mirror to hold it up against his body to imagine what it would look like on him. “It is a blended tweed with reversed stockinette insets and expressed seam details. Tony?” Steve added after a beat, and Tony turned to him with a curious expression. “I’ve never knitted or sewed a day in my life. Why do I know what stockinette inset stitching looks like?”

Tony’s expression warmed with a big smile, as if he had a reason to be proud of Steve’s transformation. “It was your rehabilitation during Cryostasis, Steve Rogers. Using the genetic traits of each inmate, the computers identify a skill or trade you are predisposed to excel in that is also projected to be most useful to society at the time in which you are released. Once this skill is identified, the rehabilitation program implants and nurtures each inmate with the knowledge and desire to carry out their training so that when they are released into society again, they can become successful, independent, and contributing citizens once again.”

Steve could only stare back at Tony. “You turned me into a _seamstress?_ ”

“I believe the accepted masculine term is sartor, or tailor,” Tony corrected gently, but he must have sensed some tension in Steve’s tone, because he spun around on his heel to avoid eye-contact and busied himself folding the sweater up to put it away somewhere. 

“That’s… great, that’s… that’s really great,” Steve muttered to himself. He put his cup on the nightstand and started to get back under the covers. He was definitely done with this conversation. “Good night, Tony.”

Steve closed his eyes and pretended not to pay attention, but without the sound of traffic or talking neighbors, there was nothing for him to hear but the sounds Tony made. Steve heard his careful footsteps and the shuffle of linens as he retrieved a spare blanket from the closet. With his eyes faithfully closed, Steve laid perfectly still and listened to Tony climbing into bed, clearly making every effort not to disturb Steve as he settled down to sleep. 

All Steve had to do now was resist the urge to reach out for the warm comfort of another body. He took slow, even breaths, and pretended to be at peace.

*** 

The next morning, Tony found Steve dressed in his uniform and sitting on his couch, stress knitting. Eight or nine thick, woolen socks of varying colors already littered the coffee table, and it looked like he was working on to a checkered blanket when Tony found him. 

“Did… did I interrupt your sleep, Steve Rogers?” Tony asked despite his fear of Steve’s answer. Had he misjudged the situation so terribly?

“I wasn’t tired,” Steve said casually, then with a little frown of reluctant defeat, he added, “and this is both satisfying and relaxing. I don’t know what the hell an afghan is, but I’m compelled to make one.”

A morality box buzzed from the kitchen, but neither of them paid it any mind. Five credits might have paid for a loaf of fresh bread, but Tony was too relieved that Steve was dealing with his emotional blemishes in such a healthy and productive way. 

“Your comfort mechanism gives me vicarious joy-joy feelings, Steve Rogers. I will be sure to acquire a greater number and variety of yarn for you,” Tony promised with a smile of delighted pride. “Allow me to get ready, and I will return to collect you promptly.”

“Not in tick tocks?” Steve wondered without looking up from his loops and his needles. “What a shame.”

Tony opened his mouth to reply, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Instinctively, he felt there was something different about Steve’s tone, but he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. Either way, Steve made a good point. 

“You are right,” Tony agreed. “Time is of the essence, I will not delay—”

Steve groaned and rolled his eyes. “No, wait, Tony, I didn’t mean—take your time, I’m sorry. That was sarcasm.”

Tony blushed at the way Steve said his name again, but rather than correcting him, Tony quickly hid his face behind his hand under the guise of rubbing his nose. “I am not so familiar,” he said quietly, “though I have heard sarcasm was a quality attributed to your generation. However, your valid point remains, Steve Rogers. Every minute we rest is another minute that unpleasant criminal plagues our city. As you say, Captain: in tick tocks. Be well.”

Tony rushed back to his place where he washed up and strapped into his uniform in record time. On the way out, he instructed Steve on how to navigate the building - operating the elevator by spoken commands, exiting the building with a retinal scan, and finding the space where private conveyances were returned. 

“The doors will open for exiting without a scan,” he explained while they waited for the car to be completely lifted out of the underground parking lot and returned to solid ground. “The retinal scan initiates the return of your conveyance. No meeting has yet been called for the morning, Steve Rogers, why do we not use this time for you to begin driving?”

Steve pursed his lips as he considered the patrol car in much the same way Tony looked at the old death trap tin cans from the 21st that ran on combustion engines and poisonous gasoline. He was determined to give Steve time to adjust, and stepped around to the passenger side while Steve considered his new task. Steve followed suit and squeezed into the car with care. 

It took a little time, but together they adjusted the seat, visors, and monitors in the car to accommodate Steve’s height until he was comfortable. Tony talked him through it step by step, and to his continued amazement, Steve learned it almost faster than Tony could teach him. Soon, the dashboard’s navigation system came on and they were on their way as Steve easily followed its instructions to merge the car into the ambling morning traffic. 

“This rehabilitation program,” Steve said, apropos of nothing. “How did you say it worked?”

“The computer identifies a trade or skill most suited to your genetic composition and selects one by cross-referencing all services projected to best serve society at the time of your release,” Tony explained again. “It takes into account your hormonal predisposition, your predisposition for certain injuries, your projected height—”

“So it turned me into Betsy Ross,” Steve interjected as Tony tried to explain the detailed selection criteria. “What did the program do to do Rumlow? He’s stronger than I remember, and he’s accessing computers and machines and finding his way around this place.”

Rather than responding to Steve’s question, Tony engaged the remote computer to call up the information directly. 

“Computer, describe rehabilitation training assigned to Brock Rumlow.”

“Access denied,” the computer cheerfully replied. “Silver class personnel not authorized to review rehabilitation assignations.”

“Yes, we are, computer,” Tony disagreed with a frown. “Computer, are you coming down with a virus again?” 

“Thank you for health check, Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark. All systems are in fine fettle.”

“Confirm access permission with Chief Director Nicholas Fury and report rehabilitation assignment for Brock Rumlow.”

The computer was silent for a few seconds before reporting back. “Permission confirmed, access granted, Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” it replied this time, then started its long description of Rumlow’s rehabilitation. “Rumlow, Brock. Rehabilitation skills: urban combatkill, torture methodology, computer override authorization, violent insurgence strategy…”

It couldn’t be right; that was impossible, no released felon could ever be released into society with such a training! “Computer, this is no time for mischief—”

“Tony, listen to me,” he heard Steve say in a collected, steady voice. Tony stared at him, momentarily grateful that it was Steve behind the wheel and not himself, because only one of them looked calm and comforted by this knowledge, and it was not him. 

“Tony, who designs these rehabilitation programs? Who has access to those computers?”

“Pierce Corporation,” Tony whispered in a voice he couldn’t muster. This was so much worse than he could ever have expected. “Steve Rogers, this means—our Governor, he must be in danger, there must be a, a criminal mastermind who has infiltrated his corporation and released the madman Brock Rumlow to do his bidding, our eminent Governor could be a target—”

Steve levelled a withering look at him. “You want to help the man who outlawed kissing?” 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers!” Tony snapped, and Steve immediately looked away with a pinched expression that looked far more amused than chastised. “Governor Alexander G. Pierce has only ever cared about one thing—”

“Power!” Steve shouted at such a loud volume that Tony startled into silence. The morality box buzzed as it fined Steve three credits for excessive aggression in the workplace. 

“Stark, this finally makes sense! The man’s created a perfect little world for himself to rule by convincing you to that glorifying hegemonic apathy and uniformity will result in peace. I don’t care if he’s got more faith than god, you can’t forget that he is a man like everybody else: corruptible, and accountable to the law. If the law does not apply to him, this is no longer a free society.”

“I can follow your logic Steve Rogers, but you simply cannot accuse the savior of our city of being connected with this vicious multi-murder-death-killer.”

Steve strangled the wheel until his knuckles started to turn white, but despite his evident temper, he somehow resisted shouting. Instead, he calmly bit out, “Why not?”

Tony shrugged, and he was already queueing up the computer with an innocent smile. “We do not have an appointment yet.”

It took a moment for Steve to absorb Tony’s reply, but Tony saw the moment the tension bled out of Steve’s straining grip, and the gratifying look of pleasant surprise in his expression. 

“Computer, fiber-op Governor Alexander G. Pierce’s office and inform them of our intention to meet with the Governor,” Tony instructed the dashboard computer. “We wish to follow up on yesterday’s incident at the museum.”

Steve’s face warmed with a smile of relief, and Tony felt a weight lifting from his chest at the thought that his support had been part of giving Steve that level of satisfaction. They would go to Pierce’s offices, Steve would learn that he was wrong, and at the end of the day Tony will have served him well because Steve could finally be confident that his steward would always support him. 

*** 

Associate Bob Sitwell was waiting to receive them in the entrance hall to the New Yoresylvania Governor’s Compound. 

“Mellow greetings, Captain Steven G. Rogers and Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark,” he said with a deferential bow of his head. “How may I add to the serenity of your morning?”

“Associate Bob Sitwell, we have an appointment with our esteemed Governor this morning,” Tony said before Steve said anything inappropriate. “Please take us to his office.”

“Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark, I’m afraid there has been a most regrettable occasion for miscommunication. The Governor is indisposed at this time with other important matters that cannot be delayed. For the continued moral sanctity of our wholesome, unpolluted New Yorseylvania, he is not to be disturbed. Instead, I will be available to address all of your inquiries.”

“That’s convenient,” Steve muttered, and Bob gave him a strange look. 

“Convenient? It is his duty as Governor and our leader, Captain Steven G. Rogers.”

“What about his duty to all of Rumlow’s victims? Isn’t it his fucking duty to help us capture him?”

“Enhance your calm, Steve Rogers,” Tony cut in, holding up a hand between them and, as politely as he could, took over Steve’s brewing tirade. “Associate Bob Sitwell, what my ward is crudely attempting to point out, our beloved Governor may be the only person who can answer the questions we have. Respectfully, we only request minutes of his time.”

“I am ever so sorry, Lieutenant Anthony E. Stark, but the venerable Governor Alexander E. Pierce is not here for your unannounced visit. I do not think I can access him at this time.”

Steve grabbed Sitwell by the throat and lifted him off his feet. Frozen in shock, Tony stared up at the bald man, wide-eyed. He should perhaps have felt alarm or discomfort from Steve’s behavior, but he was in absolute awe. Sitwell wasn’t an underfed man, after all, and Tony found he couldn’t resist glancing at Steve and the way his uniform strained over his lifting arm to contain his power. 

“Think again,” he snarled, squeezing Sitwell’s windpipe deliberately. 

Tony could feel himself growing unexpectedly lightheaded and willed himself to look away. There was nothing like Sitwell’s bulbous face to remind him of what they were there to do. 

Sitwell choked and wheezed in fear. “I shall give it my utmost efforts, sir.”

Steve threw him away from them with a thud and a clatter of jewelry. He scrambled away from them, then quickly pulled out his hand-held computer. His fingers flew over the keyboard with newfound motivation. 

“Oh, what a peachy surprise! It appears Governor Alexander E. Pierce is attending a FiberOp conference as we speak. Conference room two down the hall.”

Tony knew where that was, and he quickly led the way. Except, they didn’t meet the Governor in the conference hall. His face was instead projected through a live VideoGram, a vivid, three-dimensional projection on a flexiglass screen. 

“Mellow apologies for my lack of physical disposition, Captain. I have an entire city to govern, it is frightfully consuming business.”

“Then I’ll make it quick, Governor,” Steve replied without dawdling over pleasantries. “You designed an entire society of followers and pushovers to flatter your ego, but with them, you have no way to control your Scraps and problem makers who don’t care for your cult. So, instead of working with them on a compromise, what do you do? You program Rumlow’s rehab so he’d come out of Cryo as the perfect 22nd century terrorist.”

“My dear Captain Steven G. Rogers, there appears to be some mistake,” he said as his VideoGram screen was split in half to display Rumlow’s rehabilitation directives. It looked nothing like what Tony had pulled up in the car only an hour ago. “My only interest in Rumlow was in the creation of an expert florist; his sensitivity to color and design is—”

“Cut the bullshit!” Steve snarled, and in the near distance, a morality box whirred to life. “Outside the museum, I saw you and Rumlow together. He had a full ten seconds to think about where to put a bullet in your head, so why didn’t he?”

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, this imaginative display of barbaric intention was uncouth even in your time,” Pierce said with a tired sniff, “not all men lust for murder—”

Steve reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out the Beretta he had kept since the museum visit. He chambered the weapon without looking away from Pierce on the VideoGram. 

“Steve Rogers!” Tony cried as soon as he realized what Steve held in his hands, but Steve turned his back to Tony and ignored his continued attempts to get Steve’s attention. 

“In my time, ten seconds is nine and a half seconds longer than you live once you were face to face with Rumlow,” Steve told him coolly. “You’ve exposed him to decades of torture and isolation, feeding him only a cocktail of training to make him more violent, more heartless, and more intelligent. I will only ask one more time,” he finished with slow, biting words. “Why are you still alive?”

“I am the Governor of New Yorseylvania, I do not answer to any man,” Pierce said in a deep, threatening voice. “And judging from your behavior, I am beginning to wonder if your penchant for violence as a means to solving all your problems makes you suitable to our fine city. After all, perhaps the fracas in the museum was not the result of Rumlow’s presence, but of yours.”

Only Tony was left in the conference room to watch as the Beretta appeared on the VideoGram, the nuzzle pressed to Pierce’s temple. 

“Wonder about this, you son of a bitch,” Steve snarled while the morality box whirred back to life. “You can’t control a man like Rumlow. Give up the fucking game, or he’ll finish you himself.”

Pierced raised his brows, and in his implacable serene way, turned to gaze up the barrel of the gun at Steve. “Tell me, Captain. What do you plan to do with that archaic weapon?”

There was a burst of commotion as Chief Director Fury ran into the Governor’s personal office with a handful of police officers, including Bruce and Tony. 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, cease this madness!” Fury bellowed. “If you wish to see another day of sunshine, I strongly recommend that you enhance your calm and lower your weapon at once.”

Steve set his jaw in his rage, but did as he was told. “You’re not doing yourself any favors, you know,” he told Pierce in a icy whisper, “if you don’t tell me, I can’t help you. And trust me, he will come for you.”

“And I can come for you,” Pierce whispered back, his voice sickly sweet. 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, step away from the benevolent Governor Alexander G. Pierce this minute,” Fury said again. Steve had nothing left to say, and with a final pitying look, he turned on his heel and walked away before he gave in and strangled the man with his bare hands. 

The gun he kept. 

“Please, Steve Rogers,” Tony said as he and Bruce rushed to keep up with Steve’s furious march out of the Governor’s offices. “Enhance your calm, this was a misunderstanding—”

“There is no misunderstanding, Stark!” Steve snapped at him without breaking his stride. “I’ve had it with enhancing my calm! I’m going to find Rumlow and enhance his calm instead.”

“Why, that’s a marvelous idea!” Bruce said with a smile, practically jogging to keep up. He didn’t look happy until they reached their conveyance and he could finally fall into the passenger seat. “How will you achieve such a miracle, Captain Steven G. Rogers?”

“I’m gonna blow his fucking head off.”

*** 

“I swear they will not return you to Cryo-Prison.”

Steve glanced Tony’s way through the rearview mirror long enough to make eye contact. He remained silent. 

“The legal discourse will be tangled at best, I cannot deny that this is unprecedented, but no man—”

“Stop the car!” 

Steve’s sudden urgency alarmed Tony into reflexive action. Without thinking, he pulled the car to the side of the road and switched on the hazard lights. They were still only minutes from Pierce’s offices, and Tony opened his mouth to ask what had happened, if perhaps Steve had forgotten his gloves or if he was suffering another panic attack at the thought of a repeated prison sentence. As before, Steve held his tongue, and without a word, he climbed out of the vehicle. 

“What is Captain Steve Rogers doing?“ Bruce asked, and Tony could only blink back at him. For any prisoner to exit a law enforcement conveyance was highly improper, and to make matters worse, Steve walked on the green, unpaved landscaping. 

Tony could neither read minds or allow Steve to simply walk away. He had no choice but to chase after Steve. 

“Steve Rogers!” he shouted ahead at the broad back marching away from him. “You must halt!”

He could have sworn he heard Steve chuckling in the distance. “Yeah? And why’s that, Stark? So you can lock me up for doing my job again?”

With a final push of effort, Tony managed to catch up to Steve and his long stride. “Captain Steven G. Rogers, enhance your calm. Were you not listening to me? Only minutes ago I was swearing that I would not allow—”

“Allow them to put me in the freezer, yeah, I heard you,” Steve said, slowing his pace before taking stock of his surroundings and turning in the general direction of Pierce’s offices. Soon, they would emerge into the garden that was the Governor’s backyard, and what would Tony do then? 

“I’d rather stay out of your precious New Yorselyvania, Stark. You can handle Rumlow yourselves, can’t you?”

Tony gasped softly and stared at him as if he had been struck in the face. “You…. Steve, you cannot mean that. You are a hero, a—you’re Captain America.”

Steve slowed his steps, and for the first time since the incidental connection in the car, he turned to look at Tony. He smiled, but it was not a kind smile. Irony, perhaps, or what the 21st century historians would have called 'sarcasm'. Tony couldn’t be sure. 

“You can’t have heroes without freedom, Tony,” Steve told him quietly. “This world Pierce has created could not exist with freedom. Individuality, diversity, a desire to do better. Everything that makes America the country I love. The country I will fight for. You’ve chased those people away and forced them to live like animals in the sewers.”

“I… beg your pardon?” Tony whispered, and glancing down, he realized Steve had steered them to a manhole cover near the Governor’s building. 

“Think about it, Stark,” Steve said as Bruce caught up to them, huffing and puffing out of breath. “Why haven’t we found Rumlow yet? How did he get away from us at the museum? Where is the only place Pierce’s surveillance doesn’t reach? And, where else will he find people desperate enough to overthrow New Yorseylvania?”

Steve crouched down and started the process of unlatching the locked manhole cover when Bruce seemed to finally realize that this wasn’t all a terrible nightmare. 

“Captain Steven G. Rogers, you could not possibly be suggesting that we voluntarily wade through the unrecyclable garbage and unholy excrement of an entire city.”

Steve grunted under his breath, but he didn’t stop working until he stood up and threw the manhole cover aside. Lights came on automatically to illuminate the ladder built into the wall of the tunnel leading down to the sewer system. 

Even with the lights, the tunnel was so deep that there was no end in sight. Tony’s stomach churned with fear. 

“Depends on what’s more important to you: staying clean, or stopping Rumlow from roaming the city freely?”

Bruce balked, bewildered. “Why—what? Why are those my only options?”

Despite his partner’s horrified reaction, Steve’s logic made sense. Tony would never have considered it, but there were few alternative explanations for how Rumlow had evaded their overview of the city for so many days. 

But for so long, Pierce had insisted that cleanliness was crucial to their survival. Cleanliness, vigilant hygiene practices, and strictly monitored exchange of body fluids had rescued their entire civilization from the brink of collapse. Engaging in a practice as unclean and questionable as willfully entering the sewers could disqualify Tony from gold status. More importantly, it could permanently disqualify Bruce from his license to conceive. 

“Steve Rogers, how certain are you of this decision?” Tony whispered, looking at Steve with a grim expression. 

A grim, determined expression. 

Whatever Steve’s answer was, Tony’s mind was already made up. The liberty of ascending to gold status was only pittance compared to the sanctity and security of the city. They simply could not overlook this lead. 

“If he is not there, we might at least find a lot of people who know of good places to hide in the city. Scraps are people, too, Stark,” Steve added in a gentler voice. “They don’t deserve Rumlow any more than your New Yorseylvanians.”

“As you say,” Tony sighed in agreement, then turned to look at his anxious partner. “Bruce Banner, my friend. I will not allow you to endanger your eligibility to sow offspring. I formally request that you return to the precinct and inform them of our plan.”

As a gold class officer, Bruce outranked Tony. There was no reason for him to follow through with Tony’s request or to do as Tony said. But they both knew that the treasure of having a family with a woman he cared deeply for was greater than any duty, and the fear of losing it all too much to bear. So Bruce nodded, and he promised to do as Tony asked. 

“Don’t follow me closely, alright? If something happens to me—”

“Be silent, Steve Rogers,” Tony said under his breath while Bruce was not yet far enough away to be out of earshot. “The risk is too great, I will not allow it. I descend first.”

Tony chanced one last furtive look after Bruce to be sure he was not looking their way, then before Steve had a chance to move, he took to the ladder quickly and started the downward climb. 

“No—Stark, wait, that’s why I should go first. Tony, get back here!”

Steve’s voice echoed like war drums down in the cavernous tunnel, and Tony hissed at him to be quiet. “You are my ward, Steve Rogers. I will not allow it.”

For a short time, only silence answered him. Then, little by little, Tony became aware of a whispering sound cutting through the darkness from above. 

Tony’s life flashed before his eyes - his childhood rolling colorful fruit chewies in sodium alginate with his mother, who taught him chemistry was for more than medicine, or his teenage years hiding books on combustion engines or Bruce Lee laser discs from his father, who couldn’t understand why his son was so determined to scare all chances of mentorship away. He lived and died in that sole heartbeat. Like the celestial refuse that occasionally streaked across the sky, the obscene mass of Captain Steve Rogers was hurtling down the ladder at an alarming speed.

With a gust of friction, Steve slid to a stand-still immediately over Tony’s head. 

“I know it’s your first time,” Steve grunted softly on top of him, “but stopping never gets you far.” 

Tony stared up at him and swallowed. He nodded, and without another word, he resumed his downward climb. 

Long minutes passed in silence until finally Tony’s foot reached solid ground. 

“We have arrived,” Tony whispered, stepping away from the ladder to give Steve room to stand. A small ledge allowed them to walk beside the sloshing river of sewage without ruining the polished shine of their boots. Aside from the ladder, there was no other light source in the tunnel. 

“Stark, let me go first,” Steve said quietly. “I see better in the dark.”

“We do not know what lives in these sewers, Steve Rogers,” Tony hissed back in alarm. “There may be crocodiles, or, or mutant rats the size of crocodiles! You will walk behind me, where you are safe.” 

“Tony,” Steve whispered a moment later. “What if it attacks from behind?”

Tony stopped at once. What if a threat _did_ approach them from behind? If Steve could see in the dark, the safest place for him would be in the front of the line. Steve would see an oncoming attack and have a chance to prepare himself, or have a chance to run if Tony was mauled from behind. 

“Steve Rogers, perhaps you—” 

Steve clapped a hand over Tony’s mouth and stopped dead in his tracks. The uninvited touch of a stranger - and a stranger who had just slid down a grimy ladder into the sewers, no less - was enough to make Tony want to scream, but he choked down his reactionary alarm and tried to focus. 

It took him much longer than it had Steve, but soon he heard it, too. Footsteps. Many footsteps. 

With a quick pivot and a firm push, Steve switched their positions so that he would stand between Tony and the oncoming threat. The thundering sound of feet rolled towards them through, casting against the tunnel walls echoing and surrounding them until Tony was sure it was his own heartbeat rattling in his ears drowning out the world. 

Steve’s whole body tensed against Tony’s back like an extension of himself. Tony only had a moment to realize that Steve was rearing up for fight or flight, then in the next heartbeat, Steve sprinted away. 

Tony followed before he had a chance to doubt himself. 

Ahead, long planks were laid across the tunnel floor to allow large numbers of people move through the tunnels with ease. A dozen figures dressed in dark colors armed with blunt clubs and long knives descended on them. Steve met them head on, intentionally positioning himself between Tony and the mob when Tony slipped around him and under Steve’s arm. Wedged in like a shield for his ward, he kicked the first Scrap coming at Steve in the gut, elbowed another’s club away before kneeing that Scrap in the crotch. 

From behind him, he heard Steve whisper, “Tony?” but all that mattered was that he sounded untroubled and unharmed. Tony spun low, sweeping another Scrap off his feet, spun around to palm-fist him in the nose, then leaping to his feet to leave that Scrap to splutter and weep in his blood before attacking the next. Knee to the liver, punch to the throat, fingers in the eyes, and by the time he turned to take on the next Scrap, the Scraps were backing away from him. 

Steve was no better. He hadn’t moved in all this time, and only in the unnatural stalemate did Tony notice he’d been gaping at him through the whole fight. 

“Tony, where…” he breathed, staring at him and the four bodies littering the floor. “Where did that come from, Stark?”

Tony blinked at him, still busy shaking out the faint ache from his fingers. “I studied the creative brutality of Jackie Chan on laserdisc for many years, Steve Rogers.” 

“Stebe?” 

The Scraps and both Steve and Tony turned to stare at the man bleeding all over himself from his broken nose. 

“Stebe Wogers?” he said more loudly, making his way towards them in clear shock. “It me.”

He pulled down the tattered scarf obscuring half his face, and Tony watched as horror flickered across Steve’s expression. 

“Bucky?”

“Sergeant James B. Barnes?” Tony echoed, not that either of them acknowledged him. Steve looked like his knees were about to buckle just as Bucky caught him in his arms and hauled him into a crushing hug. 

“It’s _you_ ,” Steve whimpered breathlessly, but on the next heaving breath he collapsed into Bucky’s arms and sobbed into his shoulder. “Buck, you—they told me—you’re, you’re alive—”

Tony ached from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his heart. Steve was not his family or his lover, his pain was not Tony’s to bear. But Steve clutched onto his Bucky with such desperation that it weighed on Tony’s soul. He couldn’t understand if Steve was holding on so fiercely because he was afraid of losing his friend again, or if he was afraid of being left behind. Steve hadn’t grieved at the Cryo-Prison when Tony told him his world had passed him by, so to see him grieve so openly and so deeply made him wonder when, if ever, Steve had truly felt safe or supported in Tony’s company. 

He watched in silence from the sidelines as Bucky comforted his ward, helped Steve through his grief and even helped him find his smile again. The Scraps gathered around them at Bucky’s request, introducing themselves to Steve with genuine smiles and eager handshakes. 

And Steve didn’t hesitate to shake every one of their dry, filthy, unmanicured hands, introducing himself as only ‘Steve’ and repeating each Scrap’s name to enhance his learning. 

“I came here with Tony Stark,” Tony heard Steve saying after some time, and some of the Scraps turned to glance his way. Their looks didn’t convey loathing as strongly as Tony had expected, but they weren’t particularly kind either. 

“He has been helping me adapt to the new world and understand what happened,” Steve was telling Bucky and his ragtag crew. “Their culture is more conservative, so please call him by his last name, Stark.”

Bucky blinked at Steve, then peered at Tony. “As in, Howard Stark?”

“Likely, but not confirmed, and not a priority,” Steve replied, fairly succinctly. “Buck, Rumlow escaped Cryo—” when Bucky’s jaw dropped and he looked about ready to start shouting, Steve rushed to hold up a hand and talk over him. “No time for questions: he’s out, and he’s after the person or people who lead the Scraps. We can’t find him on the surface, so I believe he’s down here, hiding among you or in the tunnels on his own. We need to get back and warn your leader right now.”

“We don’t have a leader, we work together,” Bucky told him, then a little more gently, he said, “Natasha is here, too, Steve. But if it’s her he’s after… he’s in for a world of pain.”

“It’s a long story, but he is a lot stronger, faster, and smarter than he used to be. We can’t underestimate him, we have to hurry.” 

Bucky looked confused, but agreed without argument. The Scraps started picking up their scant gear and heading back, until Steve called Tony’s name. As one, they stopped in their tracks and stared back. 

“He’s not coming, is he?” Bucky asked, and by the looks of his crew, they were wondering the same thing. “It’ll be difficult enough explaining why my best friend is wearing one of these clown suits, but he’s dead meat down there.”

“I think he’s just demonstrated he’s well matched for your guys, Buck,” Steve drawled. For a moment, Tony blushed at such a blatant expression of pride, but then he noticed Bucky rolling his eyes and snickering, and Steve smirk, and it occurred to him slowly that Steve’s intention had been to tease Bucky. 

Tony wouldn’t let that weigh on his mind. He straightened his back, pushed his shoulders back, and held his chin high, and with deliberate confidence, he told the Scraps, “Steve Rogers is not to go without me, I am his ward and his mentor. It is my duty to ensure his safety and integration into society. Besides, as Steve Rogers suggests,” he added with a little smirk, “I have matched your meat.”

“You’ve done what to my meat?” Bucky asked at the same time as Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and, resigned to his fate, muttered, “ _Met_ your match.”

“Oh, Natasha will love this,” Bucky practically giggled to himself, then gestured for Tony to follow them, too. “Come on, Stark. It’s this way, follow me.”

*** 

The tunnels of the sewer system were vast, unclean, and inhospitable. What the Scraps had done by laying down plans to create space where there was none, then filled it with families and little business fronts, was nothing short of the miracle Tony had been told of New Yorseylvania all his life. 

New Yorseylvanians were told there were dozens of Scraps, but with his own eyes he would say there was easily hundreds living in the sewers. In the short walk back to the main camp, Bucky had confirmed at least one of Pierce’s statements: they chose to live here, free with their children and their lives, far from the unbearable utopia above. 

“Pierce is not the first person in history that wanted a homogenous, pacified herd of people following him,” Bucky told Tony on their short walk. “He’s not the first person who wanted to control his people’s education and genetic makeup. Steve and I went to war against one in our time,” he added, “he didn’t succeed. Another one got close in the 21st. But this time, Pierce has almost succeeded.”

“Many of his changes are for the improvement of society, James Barnes,” Tony insisted, “there are no diseases, no maternal or infant mortality—unlike the 21st, we respect human life, gender and sexual orientation are no longer of concern. All children have families. Emotional health is equally important as physical health.”

“Not for everyone, Stark. For you,” Bucky reminded him, firmly but not unkindly. “For sheep who obey Pierce’s fucked up rules. We’ve got none of the shit you just said, mother’s die, children starve, but they starve with the rest of us, and they get to be themselves.”

Whenever he looked at the scattered crowds they passed, Tony thought of Bucky’s words. There were so many children everywhere he turned, children of all ages. Not many looked healthy, and even fewer looked happy, but they were huddled with their parents in their hovels. 

They came to a meeting point for many of the different tunnels serving the city where there was enough space for the Scraps to have made camp. The smell was much worse here, but not with the smell of the sewers; Tony had felt himself growing numb to the stench of refuse after all this time walking over it, but now the large quantities of unclean human bodies, fresh garbage, and cooking meat almost brought Tony to his knees. 

Steve leaned in closer and quietly asked, “Are—Tony? What’s wrong?”

“I feel unwell, Steve Rogers,” Tony choked out while trying not to breathe. “The smell of, of burning cannibalized meat.”

“Fuck you, Stark. We’re no cannibals,” Bucky said with a dangerous snarl, but Steve held his hand up to silence him before it got worse. “You’re probably smelling Leticia’s burgers.”

One word left Steve softly groaning. “Burgers?”

“I’ll stay with him,” Bucky promised, then gestured across the way. “Tell her it’s on me.”

Fear rose with such force in Tony’s chest that it nearly choked him. “Steve Rogers, don’t!” he cried, and Steve turned to him with a questioning look. “Perhaps it is not the flesh of children, but do you see any cattle here? We are literally standing above excrement, this is not a sanitary environment for meal preparation. Do not risk your health so needlessly.”

Steve looked at Bucky, who only shrugged at first. “We don’t got cows, but we got plenty of rats.”

“...rat burgers?” Steve said quietly in his apparent disbelief. “Leticia’s burgers are rat burgers?”

“And they’re the best fucking rat burgers I’ve ever had, Steve,” Bucky promised with a cheeky grin, and to Tony’s horror, Steve only laughed back. 

“Remind me to tell you about Taco Bell,” he called back. “I’ll be right back!”

“What’s this, Barnes?” a woman called through the crowd, and like a shot, Steve veered off his course for Leticia to see her instead. He wrapped his arms around a red-headed woman and spun her in the air in his joy. 

If burgers made him sick to his stomach, Tony couldn’t bear to watch Steve and Natasha’s reunion. How could Steve so freely share his body with these people? He shook hands, he hugged snotty children, he kissed unclean faces. 

Tony turned his gaze down to the floorboards, where the dried fecal matter splattering up between the planks, the years of filth and scuff marks smeared in every direction could disgust him, but they wouldn’t hurt him. 

He had to remind himself that they were not here for leisure, or for Steve to find his place among the wrong people. They were here to catch a villain, and to stop him before he hurt others.

“James Barnes,” Tony said to Bucky while Steve was busy receiving a hero’s welcome. “We seek the multi-MDK maniac Rumlow, also known as Crossbones. He has evaded our surveillance for many days, and Steve Rogers believes he is doing so by hiding in the tunnels. Do you know where he could be?”

Bucky watched him quietly for some time before replying. “We had to pull out of tunnel 11 last year. That’d be my guess.”

“Then we must hasten there, with whoever is brave enough to help in the capture of this vile criminal. He kills for pleasure, James Barnes,” Tony said gravely. “I wish him on no-one.”

Bucky and Steve told Natasha, and after that, it was not long before they were on the move. She announced to the people around them that she and Bucky were looking into a threat in the 11th hall. Tony expected them to gather as families or protect their young; at worst, he expected they would leave the citizens of New Yorseylvania who would happily leave Scraps to starve to deal with it alone. Natasha didn’t even ask for their help. Yet when Steve and Tony followed Bucky and Natasha’s lead, they were joined by nearly two dozen armed Scraps. 

Some of them would not return, and for what? Rumlow was not threatening their way of life, their laws. They were either dumber than Tony had ever imagined, or braver than any New Yorseylvanian gave them credit for. 

Steve turned to Tony after a long conversation with Bucky and Natasha. “How’s your hand, Tony?”

Tony shuddered instinctively at such an intimate address, but he swallowed his correction down. Steve had recently been slipping with his formalities, but this was the first time Tony had all his attention to dream about how his name sounded when Steve said it. A world where Steve hadn’t violated his parole and was free to call Tony his, and Tony had not failed to ascend to the privilege of calling anyone his. 

“Tony? I mean, uh,” Steve stammered for a moment as he caught himself. “Stark, sorry. If your hand is still hurting—“

“There is no cause for concern, Steve Rogers. Bones heal, but lives can never be returned. You are my ward and I stand beside you in this cornucopia of fisting.” 

“...I don’t know what to say, Stark,” Steve said after a period of silent staring. “Thank you?”

Frightening as the idea of Rumlow’s filthy hands - and possibly even his blood - touching his body, Tony smiled at Steve with deep affection. “It is my privilege, Steve Rogers.”

Bucky leaned around Steve without breaking his stride. “That’s touching, but did you really just say ‘a cornucopia of fisting?’”

Before Tony could answer, Natasha had smacked Bucky on the back and hissed a warning under her breath. It was enough for them all to brace themselves when large chunks of concrete and stones were hurled at them from above. The stones had not been aimed at any in the party, but cracked into plank boards the small band of Scraps stood on, rattling the floor and their nerves. 

“Ahoy, land crabs!” someone called from the dark, “haven’t ya heard of the saying, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? We have no beef with your kind. Turn around now and nothing will change.” 

Natasha stepped away from the group and without a thread of fear in her voice, she said, “We’re here for Rumlow.” 

“Rumlow ain’t home, he’s got a big fish to fry,” some other voice giggled in the dark. “But guess that tells us on what side of the line y’all stand...” 

Out of the shadows emerged unsavory men and women. They looked as if they were made from the darkness, with their dirty teeth and bloodied knuckledusters. 

“Is it just me or do some of these jokers look familiar?” Bucky whispered, and Tony caught Steve mutely nodding in reply. 

“Captain America,” one of the tallest figures snarled. Tony instinctively drew closer to Steve, his arms already itching to pull the man behind himself. 

“Twenty life sentences, because of you. I dreamt of your pretty face every day on the ice, of pulling your pretty eyes out of your skull and snuffing your life out by pissing on your brain.”

“You wanna touch him you gotta go through me first, pal,” Bucky glowered, but it was Tony who snatched up one of the smaller rocks around them and hurled it at the man threatening Steve’s person so freely. 

The rock found its mark between the beast’s eyes with perfect accuracy, and he crumbled to the floor with a fallen log. His end was the spark that lit the fuse. With a roar of vengeful rage, the handful of villains rushed at the dozen waiting Scraps. The Scraps has the advantage of numbers and perhaps even weapons, but their enemies were twisted with decades of hate and a lifetime of crime. They fell back in the first onslaught, but as Natasha and the super soldiers regained their footing, the tide of battle began to turn. 

Tony operated on instincts he had never truly know he had. Steve stayed close and they fought back to back, partly to protect each other, but just as importantly, in part so that Tony would not be distracted by the miraculous acrobatic maneuvers Steve thrived on in battle. 

He had been so wrapped up in staying alive and flattening the fiends that it took him much too long to tie the stray clues into a lead. 

“Steve Rogers!” he shouted over the ruckus, “Rumlow, I believe I know where he is!” 

Steve turned towards Tony and nodded in acknowledgement. He finished the fight he was caught in by snatching the two villains by their throats and clobbering their heads into the wall. Around them, the Scraps were winning the fight, and Steve stepped over dead and unconscious bodies alike to reach Tony. 

He pulled a short woman with a spear off of Tony, punched her in the face, and tossed her aside. “Tell me.”

Tony stared at the woman he’d been fighting for quite a while who now lay across the floor boards like soiled laundry. His legs ached and his body was bruised; he may have several fractured bones, and someone had pulled on his hair really hard—

“Tony?” 

“The Governor’s offices,” Tony said in a rush as Steve’s voice brought him back to the present. “The Governor has the means to oversee and alter the rehabilitation of all Cryo prisoners. Anyone with access to his computer terminal can potentially assign thawing orders. Those orders are not questioned, Steve Rogers. No commandment from Alexander G. Pierce is.” 

“He can thaw as many assholes as he likes?” Bucky asked incredulously, and as Tony looked around them again, he realized only Scraps were now standing. These tired, starving Scraps had somehow won. Tony’s scalp still ached from where his hair had been pulled, but it was worth it. 

“And the criminals they pertain to,” Tony agreed, equally frightened and overwhelmed by his realization. “Thaw them and bring them into our world rehabilitated with any skills he wishes.” 

Steve looked at Bucky. “Which way, Buck?”

“Yeah, like you’re going alone. Governor’s compound, now,” Bucky said loudly, and every tired, bruised, bleeding face turned to him. 

When Bucky led the way, they all followed. 

***

Using the tunnels, they got to the Governor’s offices in no time. Tony unlocked the door with his palm print, and they breezed past the security guards who were not expected or trained to engage in human altercations. 

They found Pierce and Rumlow in Pierce’s private office. They were not alone. 

“How peachy keen!” Rumlow spat with his usual bravado as the Scraps filled the room behind their leaders. On his side, Rumlow had a handful of muscled Scraps, one of which had been armed with a gun to aim at Pierce where he sat in his chair. 

“You arrive in time to see my crowning achievement,” he purred, patting the armed Scrap on the shoulder. “You see, Pierce programmed me so I couldn’t kill him. But, Ben here can. Why don’t you show everybody what a powerful man you are, Ben?” Rumlow added, “kill the bitch.”

“Ben, do not listen to him!” Natasha shouted, and Ben’s arms visibly shook with the effort to keep the gun trained on Pierce’s head. “We do not murder in cold blood, that’s not who we are.”

“Think of your children!” Tony said, but both Natasha and Bucky suddenly turned furious glares at him. “What?” he said quietly, “they always say that on cinematic discs.”

“I don’t have any children,” Ben hissed, spitting the venomous words directly at Pierce. “Because of you. I watched my wife and my nephew starve to death, because of _you_.”

“Ben, there are many people counting on you,” Bucky tried, but before he got any further, Steve charged across the room at Rumlow. He moved faster than Rumlow’s upgraded reaction time, and as Steve tackled Rumlow to the ground, he caught Ben with his shoulder. 

There was a moment of chaos where Steve and Rumlow fought like animals on the floor, Pierce leapt from his chair at Ben, and the Scraps either bolted from the room or dropped to the floor to avoid accidentally being shot as Ben and Pierce fought over the gun. 

The thundering sound of boots filled the hallway, and Rumlow laughed. Natasha was the first to react by running out to meet the coming threat, but Bucky stalled, staring at his best friend as Steve and Rumlow rolled to their feet. 

At first, Rumlow got the upper hand, tackling Steve face-first into the wall and taking his advantage out on Steve’s unprotected back in the seconds it took Steve to whip around with his elbow and shatter Rumlow’s cheek. 

Bucky jumped to his feet and made a dash for Rumlow and Steve’s tussel, while Tony crawled across the floor on his hands and his feet, pressed as close to the floor as possible to avoid a stray bullet. He was halfway to Pierce’s desk when Pierce finally threw Ben aside and turned the gun on the wild fight between the three men. Bucky managed to wrestle Rumlow away from his best friend and tackle him to the ground, pummeling his face, leaving Steve rocking on his feet and panting for breath. 

Pierce raised the Beretta and smiled. 

He fired. 

Steve fell back against the wall with the force of Tony’s dead weight thrown into his arms. Tony clung to Steve with powerless limbs wrapped around Steve’s neck, staring back at Steve in wide-eyed surprise. He was so unfamiliar with pain, he had not known pain like this existed. Tony’s wet, stuttering gasp brushed against Steve’s lips.

“Alexander G. Pierce, drop that weapon!”

Steve didn’t notice Fury marching into the office with Natasha at his side, filling Pierce’s office with his lieutenants and Scraps. He was too busy trying to keep Tony's attention and offer him comfort while furtively searching for the bullet wound that continued to stain his hands and clothes red with Tony’s blood. 

It wasn't supposed to be this way, the bullet was not meant for Tony. Pierce didn't matter, Rumlow was a pest long forgotten. All that mattered were Tony’s honey brown eyes blinking up at him, too shocked to cry the tears bright in his eyes. Desperately, Steve held Tony to his chest, and as Tony’s weight became too heavy to bear, Steve collapsed to the floor on his knees with Tony cradled and safe in his arms. 

“Medic!” Steve shouted at the people who milled around him without offering any help. “Medic! He needs a medic!”

In the surrounding commotion of arresting Pierce and containing Rumlow, it was Bruce who first rushed to help Steve with Tony. “We must put pressure on the wound—”

“I don’t know where he was shot, I don’t want to move him—Tony? Tony, look at me,” Steve suddenly hissed as Tony’s eyes slipped shut. “Tony, talk to me, you—Tony, you’re going to be okay, look at me.”

Tony only managed to flutter his eyelashes before his heavy eyelids closed again. “‘m tired,” Tony mumbled on a weak breath. “You ‘kay, Steve?”

“If you fucking leave me without a mentor in this goddamn world, I will kill you myself, Tony,” Steve swore past the heavy knot in his throat, as the morality box nearby buzzed to life and announced both of his fines. “Don’t leave me here, Tony, what will I do without you?”

“Pay y’r own c’tati’ns?” Tony slurred, hissing softly as Bruce found and pressed part of his own jacket against Tony’s wound to help slow the bleeding. 

Steve blinked at him, suddenly alarmed, as if he’d possibly missed Tony’s last request. “What? What does that mean?”

“He said, you’d have to pay your own citations,” Bruce translated quietly while Tony sluggishly smirked up at Steve. “Five credits amounts to many luxuries, Steve Rogers.”

Steve stared at him, half pissed, half euphoric with relief. “You’re okay?” he whispered with newfound hope, brushing Tony’s hair from his eyes with a gentle touch to better see his face. 

“‘m shot,” Tony whined, then whispered, “wanna sleep… sleep with me, Steve?” 

“I’ll be right here, Tony,” Steve promised, “whatever happens, I will be here, standing beside you.”

When the medics arrived, Bruce and Steve helped them lift Tony into the gurney. They patched up his wound with a foam, fed him a tablet to restore his blood levels, and otherwise diligently worked to help the lieutenant with Steve hovering at their elbows with murder in his eyes. 

Steve thought nothing of following the medics carrying Tony away until Bucky grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. Instinctively, Steve reached for the gurney to keep the medics from carrying Tony away from him while his back was turned. 

“You’re leaving us?” Bucky asked, confused. “I thought you were coming with me and Natasha.”

“He has to stay,” Bruce countered before Steve had a chance to speak for himself. “We just arrested our leader, our savior. What will we do? How will we live?”

“Lieutenant Bruce Banner, stand down,” Fury said in a tone that brooked no arguments. “We uphold peace and we continue the order of New Yorseylvania as we always have. That, is how we will live.”

“With all due respect, fuck you and your bullshit,” Steve told Fury without so much as a second’s thought. “You are going to be stop excluding people from the peace and dignity, and let people live, while you,” he said, addressing Bucky, “will work with Natasha to help your people adapt. They have some great ideas, Buck, they really do. But people won’t trust New Yorseylvanian’s without your leadership. You’ll meet somewhere in the middle, and you’ll figure it out.”

“Captain?” one of the medics said, impatient and stern. “We must move the Lieutenant to the hospital, we have no tick tocks to waste. Either release his gurney, or come with us.”

From the gurney, Tony whined and turned towards Steve’s voice, suddenly worried about what Steve would choose. Steve let go of the gurney and took Tony’s hand instead, bringing Tony’s hand to his lips for a soft kiss. 

“I’m coming with you,” he told Tony as much as the medics, and with a final look at Bucky to be sure he got the message that he wasn’t kidding about a compromise, Steve climbed into the back of the ambulance after Tony. 

“I heard you,” Tony whispered to Steve while his accompanying medic busied herself with his IVs. “A compromise. You are genius, Steve Rogers.”

Steve huffed a soft laugh and squeezed Tony’s hand gently. “I liked it better when you called me Steve.” 

“I can compromise,” Tony replied with slow words, his voice so frail still that he needed great effort to form precise words and clear sentences. “I preferred when you kissed me.”

Steve blinked at him, suddenly bewildered. “Kissed you? When?” 

With a weak twitch of his fingers, Tony squeezed Steve’s hand. It took Steve a moment to remember that he had kissed Tony’s palm only minutes earlier. He tried not to laugh. 

“ _That_ was not a kiss,” he whispered, and he leaned in closer until Tony could feel Steve’s breath against his lips. “Would you like to know what a kiss is, Tony?”

Tony hummed softly in the affirmative and licked his dry lips, unintentionally catching Steve’s lips, too. The unexpected touch caught him off guard, and he gasped in his surprise. Steve laughed quietly to himself, and with his lips still curled up in a smile, Steve brushed his lips against Tony’s in a chaste, tender kiss. 

At first Tony was absolutely silent in his surprise. For a man whose only physical contact had been limited to family all of his life, being so intimately touched confused him deeply, until it was over. Then, more than in his first moments of shock, did Tony recognize what he wanted. 

As Steve pulled away, Tony whined his disappointment. 

“Do not desist, Steve,” Tony told him, as matter of factly as he could breathless and giddy with drugs and happiness. “Kiss me.”

Steve couldn’t have contained his laughter if he’d tried. He leaned back in to kiss the bridge of Tony’s nose. “Mellow apologies, Tony,” he teased him quietly, sneaking kisses of Tony’s lips now and then between his words. “From now on, my kisses will be yours and only yours for all tick tocks to come.”


End file.
